Monstrosity
by therentyoupay
Summary: WIP. An alternate universe story that captures the essence of Disney's Beauty & the Beast, but with a purely Dramione twist.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Walt Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

* * *

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_Once upon a time,  
in a far away land…  
_

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There was a King and Queen. Though reserved and cold, they were respected by all. The royals' vast riches were enough to easily keep the kingdom afloat, and the neighboring lands at bay.

When a Prince was born, the kingdom welcomed the young heir with great cheer, for he was sure to follow in his parents' footsteps, and preserve their prosperous existence. The kingdom was overcome with pride, but none were more satisfied than King Lucius or Queen Narcissa. Celebrations and grand balls were held, and kingdoms from far, far away came to celebrate the birth of Prince Draco and to offer him gifts.

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_But unnoticed to all eyes, one man did not celebrate._

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_._

_._

Rather than diminishing over the years of his service to the Malfoy line, the greed and ambition of the King's most trusted advisor, Lord Riddle, had only grown. But he was a cunning man, and before the news of Queen Narcissa's unborn son, he had been waiting patiently for an opportunity to seek his rightful place as King.

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_When the young Prince's arrival  
threatened to interfere with destiny,  
Lord Riddle schemed anew._

_._

_._

_._

"_I am a patient man," Lord Riddle said._

_Ever, ever the snake,_  
_he would wait for an opportune moment,  
and then claim what was rightfully his._

_._

_._

_._

The Prince grew to be a handsome young man and the object of much attention. Fed by favor and fueled by power, the Prince's authority was matched only by his arrogance. Lord Riddle watched on as the young Malfoy learned the art of manipulation, the value of superiority, and the necessity of secrecy.

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_For years, Lord Riddle endured_  
_pranks, tricks and other humiliating escapades._

_The Queen's laughter would ring out like bells_  
_as she and her servants shared a private joke_  
_over her son's disrespectful antics._

_"He is only a boy," she chided the advisor. "He means no harm."_

_"He is more than a boy; he is an heir,"_  
_the Lord would think to himself._

"_Yet it is I, the victim of this foolishness, who is the true heir.  
And the next King will be no one but I…  
_

… _for I am a patient man."_

_._

_._

_.  
_

For years, Lord Riddle allowed the young Prince to grow closer to him. He taught the young royal the nature of maintaining appearances, the importance of propriety, and shared with him the indulgences and the privileges befitting his royal stature. Under Lord Riddle's careful guidance, entrusted to him by decree of the royal family, the Prince learned to follow in his family's footsteps.

He instructed well; although Lord Riddle could see the disdain young Draco held for his subjects with sharp clarity, only a select few could see through the charming, persuasive Malfoy façade.

_._

_._

_.  
_

"_We rule for a reason, young Master._

_These people below you?_

_They are dirt; little more than flesh and blood._  
_Earth mixed with water, young Prince,_  
_and one of the first lessons the best of us must learn,_  
_is to never soil our souls with mud."_

_._

_._

_.  
_

Although fourteen years had at first seemed impossible, the time eventually passed, and the moment to act finally presented itself.

_._

_._

_.  
_

"_I am in need of your services," Lord Riddle declared.  
"You will be graciously rewarded."  
_

_The witch agreed.  
_

_._

_._

_._

Not more than a month after this secret encounter, the King and Queen fell mysteriously ill. The kingdom grew grave and sorrowful.

By morning, the King and Queen had quietly passed away.

_._

_._

_.  
_

_The Prince sank into darkness._

_Lost in the impossible refuge of his chambers,_  
_he bade no one welcome._

_Eventually, those around him grew wise,_  
_and no longer ventured to knock._

_._

_._

_._

Within the week, many wary members of the kingdom had left and gone, making their way to the neighboring villages of the South. Though the late Malfoy family had been respected and often feared, the memory of a thriving aristocracy and the uncertainty of a young heir were not enough to retain them.

Displeased by the course of events, the witch turned on Lord Riddle, and refused to complete their bargain; she would not be the one to end the young Prince's life. Outraged, Lord Riddle rid himself of this nuisance, and began his search for another ally.

A beautiful young gypsy by the name of Sybill Trelawney arrived from a foreign land. She knew nothing of the kingdom or its shadowed past. Desperate and eager to kill the young Prince once and for all, Lord Riddle concocted an intricate lie, and urged her to accept his proposal.

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_"He is young and naïve;  
nothing more than a shallow and arrogant shell.  
He cares for nothing other than himself,  
and his pride will lead his late family to ruin._

_Although he has everything his heart desired,_  
_the Prince is spoiled, selfish and unkind._

_Rid him of this opportunity, so that we may all be free._

_Teach him a lesson…_

_… And allow me  
to bear the burden  
of the kingdom instead."_

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Though ignorant she may have been toward the malicious motives of the Lord, Sybill was not blind to his hatred and greed. Her senses told her that she would have a part to play in this story, and that she just might be the key to unlocking the paths of their destinies.

When she looked into her crystal ball, she was startled by the sadness dwelling within the explosive young Prince, and terrified of the protective barrier of ice surrounding his bitter heart.

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_Fearing not only for the Prince's life,  
but also for the lives of those around him,  
the gypsy made a difficult decision._

_"On the night of next full moon,_  
_the young Prince Draco,  
the ward that you have grown to know so well…  
_

… _Will die."_

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For three days, Lord Riddle impatiently awaited the encroaching full moon.

On the night of what would surely bring the attainment of his destiny, Lord Riddle spent hours admiring the details of the opulent throne room. Maids bustled about with their cleaning, the chefs cooked in the corners of their cramped workspaces, and servants of all varieties meticulously prepared the castle for the morning, all with feelings of hope renewed.

At dawn, the Prince would be crowned as the new King.

_._

_._

_.  
_

"_I have been patient," Lord Riddle said with a malicious smile, admiring the gold trimmings.  
"And I will be graciously rewarded."_

_The gypsy said nothing._

_._

_._

_._

It happened at quarter past eleven.

The grand ballroom was brimming with servants; painters retouching the masterpieces, cleaning staff polishing the finery, and every available maid, page and steward arranging the general opulence into a state fit for celebration.

At quarter past eleven, when the Prince suddenly barged into the grand ballroom, appearing dazed and lost, the servants were caught by surprise. Staggering to the center of the ballroom, the Prince's eyes stared mistily in front of him and a concerned servant cautiously approached their master… but the Prince abruptly clutched his head in agony.

Without warning, a dark, looming storm cloud in the night sky slowly drifted to the side, revealing a giant white orb glowing among the stars.

_._

_._

_._

_The servants watched in horror as their Prince  
began to transform before their very eyes._

_"Werewolf," whispered the voice of frightened servant,_  
_and his gaze was deathly hollow._

_And then the screaming began._

_._

_._

_._

Suddenly nothing more than a ravenous killing machine, a creature neither animal nor human, the Prince pursued the inhabitants of his castle without inhibition. When Lord Riddle first came to investigate the source of such chaos, having abandoned the young gypsy in the shadows the throne room, he could not believe his eyes.

There, in the corridor beyond the kitchens, was a beast feasting on its prey, a monster tearing apart a servant in a pool of blood. He began to back away, to flee before he offered himself as next in line, but paused when he noticed the strange coloring of its eyes.

_._

_._

_.  
_

"_Blue," Lord Riddle breathed, as a curling sneer formed over his features.  
"The eyes of a beast such as this should be yellow,  
but instead they are blue… nearly gray… Why?"_

_Only one had eyes such as this._

"_Draco," he spat. "You never cease to ruin everything."_

_._

_._

_.  
_

Lord Riddle's shock receded, and anger swelled within him. He fled from the corridor as the monster made his way through his next meal, speeding through the mob of screaming, running, frantic people to find the gypsy. As soon as the screams could be heard from outside the castle, the remaining townspeople gathered their things and fled; all respect and loyalty to the royal family was gone. The night trudged on, and the slaughter continued.

He searched the whole castle, but she couldn't be found.

_._

_._

_._

It all started at sunrise.

Just on the brink of slashing another servant down in the wide-open catastrophe of the ballroom, the monster clutched his skull in pain once more. Slowly, groggily, the animal blinked and came to. Looking down disbelievingly at his bloodstained paws, he staggered back in shock and retched.

Gone was the handsome young Prince and the naïve would-be King.

Lord Riddle staggered into the grand ballroom, seething beyond reason, as Draco stood frozen, staring at his bloodied pawls.

_._

_._

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"_You are supposed to be dead!" Lord Riddle screamed.  
"Why are you still alive? What is the meaning of this?_

_What are you?"_

_._

_._

_._

The remaining residents gathered their courage, fueled by their confusion and anger, and watched on from the safety of barriers and through the inviting cracks in the doors and windows.

In a burst of green smoke, the gypsy appeared.

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"_I am sorry, young Prince," said the gypsy. "It is the only way."  
_

_._

_His slowly recovering human nature warred_  
_with his new instincts, and his form swayed as he moved to speak._

_"What did you do to me?" he demanded, but was startled at his new booming voice._

_._

_She smiled softly, and a thousand apologies were written in her eyes._  
_Draco didn't care about any of them._

_._

_"You," Lord Riddle snarled, his eyes wild.  
"You were supposed to take care of him! Not have him massacre the kingdom!_

_I want him dead!"_

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A feral sound tore from Lord Riddle's throat as he lunged for the gypsy, pulling a knife from his flowing robes as he leapt through the air. In a fit of speed so unfamiliar and so foreign to him that he nearly vomited from the shock, the young Prince intercepted his once-trusted advisor and violently threw him to the ground.

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_Knife suspended viciously at the juncture of his mentor's throat,  
Draco desperately tried to ignore the clawed gashes at Riddle's chest and the pooling blood,  
fighting the urge to watch as it dripped and seeped through strands of hair into tufts of fur._

_"Why?" Draco rasped._

_"You know," Lord Riddle released in a breath of caustic laughter as his eyes started to glaze._  
_"This is fitting. You were quite the little monster before;_  
_… and now your form matches your soul."_

_"Why?" Draco demanded, losing his grip._

_"Come… now, Draco," the Lord remarked,_  
_and his cough left a spatter of blood across Draco's fur._  
_"Surely… you know… where…_  
_you went wrong…_  
_in all of…_  
_this?"_

_._

_He whispered his final parting words, too quiet for the others to hear,  
but before his lips had ceased to move,  
the Prince had already plunged the dagger into Lord Riddle's dying heart.  
_

_._

_._

_._

The creature let out a gut-wrenching roar, his furry arms raised over his head in undiluted fury and pain. It echoed through the hallways of the castle and out into the early dawn. The residents of the castle who were watching stepped back in shock and fear, but did not flee.

The gypsy stood, unfazed. She stepped toward the beastly Prince carefully, and opened her arms.

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"_I am truly sorry for what you will go through, your majesty.  
But this is for the good of your kingdom, and for the good of your own being._

_On the third full moon after your seventeenth birthday,  
the moon will shine brighter than ever before.  
It is until then that you have a chance to break the spell._

I_n order to return to your human body,_  
_you must learn to see past the imaginary barriers of status,_  
_to learn to see the good in people you once thought beneath you,_  
_and to fall in love with someone of an impure bloodline._

_Should you fail,_  
_you shall remain in the body of a werewolf,_  
_complete with his mind._

_In order to keep you company,  
because I do feel great sympathy for you,  
I shall cast a spell on all those who reside here at the castle._

_As a window to the outside world, I shall give a magical mirror,  
containing one of your most faithful servants._

_Remember…_  
_the third full moon after you've reached the age of seventeen..._  
_It will shine brighter than ever before..."_

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And with that, the gypsy disappeared as quickly as she had come.

The servants were pulled with a strong invisible force into the grand ballroom, and colorful lights and sparks danced in the sudden wind that suspended them. Prince Draco watched in horror as they too began to transform.

He watched as his favorite chef became nothing more than a once-beloved cauldron, and the primary artist became a paintbrush. Candlesticks, armories, brooms… And then finally he saw one servant in particular, and helplessly stared as she became a magical mirror, just as the gypsy had foretold. Her true human form was visible in the frame, but when she put her hands upon the glass, she was trapped.

_They were all trapped._

The kingdom had neither a shining castle nor a handsome prince. It was no longer a place of prosperity and flourish, and the skies were no longer blue and inviting. The palace, surrounded by many woods and forests, was soon forgotten by many in the villages and towns nearby, and the betrayal of Draco's kingdom became naught but a myth.

_._

_._

_._

_The tragic tale of a Prince who lost everything,  
but still waited for someone to come to the castle and break the spell._

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_As the years passed, he fell into despair and lost all hope... _

_._

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_.  
_  
"I'm a monster," he whispered._  
_

_._

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_For who could ever learn to love a beast?_

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**End Note:** _9/16/11_. Thank you so much for taking the time to check out this story! It's been in the works for many years, including a nearly five year-long hiatus, and I am so excited that it will finally soon be finished.

This prologue has been completely revamped, and as you'll proceed, you'll notice a distinct different in my writing style for the first five or so chapters. I have gone through my original chapters for "survival edits" to improve the quality at least somewhat while I focus on finishing the story itself, but you can expect me to re-edit them in the far-off future… I was only fourteen when I wrote them, after all. :)

Please feel free to leave your thoughts in a review! Thank you, again, for taking the time to acquaint yourself with my story. I hope you choose to continue on!


	2. Hermione's Misfortune

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**A/N: **Thank you for reviewing. Ron's quote regarding Madam Pince's appearance is from _The Chamber of Secrets_.

**A/N EDIT:** _4/2/11_. This chapter was originally published back in 2004... Now in 2011, seven years later, I've gone back and rewritten/edited most of my writing. When this was first produced, I was at the tender age of thirteen (fourteen?), and my writing style was much less mature than it is today. The edits may not be incredibly obvious for those who have read this before, but I'm hoping the quality has improved nonetheless. I'm hoping to go through and update each of the chapters in due time.

Thanks again for your support!. Your reviews and your expressed interest in this story is what has helped bring this story back! As always, Kite1011, you're the _Monstrosity _savior. :) And Irene, my old beta, if you read this—I miss you. :/

* * *

_Three Years Later_

Not very far from what was once the beautiful, magnificent castle of Prince Draco and his loved ones, was a village in a place called England. This provincial town was extremely small, yet filled with pleasant people and charming landscapes. It was also what one might consider common; anything exciting or out of the ordinary happened very rarely in this lifestyle of simplicity.

And as with any quaint, rural village, one's personal business was always public knowledge.

Within this collective community of helpful neighbors (there was the baker, the blacksmith, the carpenter, the bookseller, the silversmith and the like), secrecy and privacy were nonexistent. All gossip was welcome gossip.

If something happened, monumental or trivial, no one would be left in the dark...

* * *

"Good morning, Hermione."

"Good morning, Madam Pince!"

The young woman known as Hermione Granger stepped into the small book shop near the center of the market. She looked at ease in her plain blue dress, with her long, wavy brown hair plaited pragmatically as it rested against her shoulders. Meanwhile, the strict bookseller known as Madam Pince projected her persistently stern personality through a customary cold gaze and firm features stretched taut from a too-tight bun. Even as Madam Pince's eyes warmed slightly at the sight of her favorite customer, they somehow still managed to convey a chilled suspicion. Hermione remembered that her friend Ron once described Madam Pince (in a voice much too loud and too tactless to be stated in the woman's _own_ bookshop, of all places) as "a thin, irritable woman who looked like an underfed vulture," for which Hermione promptly slugged him on the arm.

Regardless, by some means Hermione and Madam Pince had come to share a certain understanding. While Hermione would be forever grateful for Ginny, Harry and Ron, Madam Pince was the only person with whom Hermione could really discuss books, her one true home away from. Every morning Hermione would walk down from her house on the top of the hill at the farthest end of the town and across the bridge to the market. With no small amount of frugality, she would buy only what she needed for the day, and just before she began her walk back to her small house, she would stop by the bookstore.

"What do you recommend?" Hermione asked, immediately making way to a bookshelf on the left. She quickly skimmed through the large titles written on the various spines with her forefinger, pausing at the middle of the shelf to look at the bookseller.

"What do _I_ recommend?" The bookseller raised a thin brow. "Dear, I should be asking you for recommendations... Goodness knows you've read every book I have at least twice." Madam Pince looked at Hermione, watching her smile as she traced the patterns of grain in the wooden shelf. "Which do _you_ prefer?" Madam Pince smiled slightly, a sight many customers never got a chance to see.

Madam Pince knew her beloved books would be taken care of with Hermione. Almost since the first moment she'd met Hermione, Madam Pince had deemed her worthy of being one of the few people in England worthy of the very rare privilege of _borrowing_ the books from her small shop, rather than purchasing her finds. _And besides_, Madam Pince thought. _If I didn't, I wouldn't have anything left to sell!_ And of course, after everything Hermione had been through... Well, it was the least she could do.

"Hm," Hermione bit her bottom lip thoughtfully. "I guess it'd have to be this one." Hermione stood on her tip-toes to pluck a rather archaic book with a red cover from the highest shelf. Madam Pince rested her elbows on the counter and began carefully flipping through the pages. "This one's my favorite."

"I assumed it was." She let her glasses fall to the bridge of her nose as she tipped her head downward to look at Hermione. "Seeing as you've read it four times."

"Oh, I love it," Hermione told her. Instantly, her eyes came alight and her cheeks flushed as she began summarizing the story, elaborating further on her favorite parts. All the while Madam Pince watched her with amusement, and she smiled when Hermione re-enacted the villain being slain by the heroine. "That's the kind of story I like," she said thoughtfully. "A story with a heroine." She trailed a finger along the title, seeing something beyond the letters. "There aren't many stories like these."

"Ah," Madam Pince fixed her with a disconcerted stare. "I see. And what about a story where the heroine falls in love?"

"Especially a story like that," Hermione laughed lightly, drawn from her reverie. "Like this story. Especially this story." She gently flipped a page in the book resting on the counter, then quickly closed it, feeling as if she had suddenly revealed too much of herself in so few seconds. Madam Pince made a decision.

"Then you'll just have to let me borrow it eventually. I'd love to read it." Madam Pince said casually, gently sliding the red book towards Hermione. Hermione's brows drew together in confusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, seeing as there's only one copy of this book in town, and I am now giving it to you, I will need to borrow it from you in order to read it." Madam Pince said. Hermione opened her mouth, but quickly closed it.

"Surely you can't just _give_ this book to me?" Hermione asked, disbelieving. "I have to pay for it, just like everyone else." She was already pulling her coin purse out of her satchel.

"My dear, you are one of the only few in this town with enough _sense_ to read these books of mine." Madam Pince answered reasonably. "You love this book more than anyone."

"But your sales..." Hermione argued. "It would be money from your pocket." Hermione bit her lip again. "No, I'm sorry, but I can't accept it." She shook her head slightly.

"Hermione, you deserve this book and no one else will bother to read it. The _fools_..." she said the last two words with no small tinge of annoyance. Then she said in a much softer tone: "Please. Take it." Madam Pince slid the book towards her again, but Hermione was in turmoil. "Hermione, it is free of charge." Madam Pince insisted, patience dripping from her every word.

"Couldn't you at least sell it to me for half price?" Hermione fingered the title lovingly, staring at the red cover's corners where it was beginning to rip. "I'd feel so guilty if you were to give it to me for nothing." Madam Pince sighed.

"Half price if you wish, but really, there would be _no problem _at all if you were to just take it for free." Madam Pince waited as Hermione dug for the correct number of coins and paid her. Madam Pince hesitated when Hermione handed the money to her... who truly needed it more? "Are you positive you don't want free of charge?"

"Yes, I'm positive," she promised. She took the red book and slid it carefully into her satchel, careful not to crush the fresh loaves of bread and her small bag of sugar. The smile on her face told Madam Pince all that she needed to know. "Thank you, Madam Pince. Goodbye, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Goodbye, dear."

As the door closed a small, ringing bell attached to the top corner permeated the bookshop. She watched Hermione through the glass window until she was no longer in view, and then returned to the back of the shop to take inventory with a sigh.

_The poor girl. _

* * *

When Hermione reached her small home it was already midday. Humming to herself as she walked up the wide rock path that led to her doorway, it was only as she rounded the large birch tree that she noticed a figure sitting on her doorstep.

"Hello, Ginny!" Hermione called out with a smile, quickening her pace to a brisk walk as Ginny came to meet her. "What are you doing here?"

"Harry and I are going to the park in a bit." She finally reached Hermione's side. "Since your house is nearest, I thought I'd come up here for a while before I left. Unfortunately, I forgot that today is the day you walk all the way down to the bakery."

"I'm glad I did! Dobby was having a sale on my favorite kind of bread this morning and I bought one of the first batches. I can't wait to taste it." Hermione inhaled deeply, imagining the scent of the air to be the fresh smell of her dinner.

"You know you could have just asked me to pick some up on the way," Ginny said, carefully avoiding large rocks on the path. "It's not too far from my house and I could have easily picked up your food for you. Then you wouldn't have had to go anywhere today."

"Oh, I know." Hermione said as she, too, averted the large stones. "But I love the scenery. Besides, I stopped by Madam Pince's shop again to get a book."

"Of course," Ginny rolled her eyes. "You were just there yesterday, but I suppose that hardly matters. What book did you get?" She asked. Hermione carefully slipped the book out of her satchel. "_Of course_," Ginny sighed with a resigned shrug. "I'm surprised she hasn't just given it to you yet."

"Well, this morning she tried to... But I paid for it." Hermione said, slipping it back into her satchel.

"You mean she offered it to you for free and you still paid?" She frowned at her friend. "Why?"

"I just felt guilty taking it... it wasn't a gift for a special occasion or anything. It just felt wrong somehow. I don't know..." Hermione sighed. "I know I probably should have just taken it, considering I don't have enough money as it is, but still... well, at least we settled for half price." Hermione attempted to smile. "But why did you come here before you went to the park? I would've thought you'd want to walk with Harry." Hermione raised a brow as she reached the front step.

"Well," began the sixteen-year old redhead. "I was going to, but Ron said he was going to come visit later. I suggested that Harry keep him company until they got here. Then we'd walk the rest of the way together." Strange, but if Hermione didn't know any better, she'd swear that Ginny was fixating her gaze on nearest tree a little _too_ intently, as if she'd never seen one before. "So, as you know, my dad's birthday is tomorrow. You're coming to his birthday dinner, aren't you?" Ginny asked, still looking anywhere but at Hermione. She raised a brow at the swift change of subject.

"Oh, right. Sure, of course." Hermione assured her. "Of course I'm coming... You live all the way on the other side of town. And usually, Ron doesn't come here unless Harry or you are with him. Why would Ron come up here alone?" Hermione asked, slipping a key on a silver chain off her neck. She unlocked the door in front of her and opened it wide. Suddenly, the brass door handle was even more interesting to Ginny than the tree. _What is going on with her?_ Hermione thought.

"Who knows what goes through my brother's head?" Ginny grumbled, almost to herself. "I certainly don't."

"Hmm. I wonder..." Hermione walked to her small kitchen and set her satchel on the kitchen table. "Ginny?" Hermione asked in a tone that made Ginny suddenly nervous. "Is there something you want to tell me?" She sighed.

"Look, I wasn't supposed to say anything—" But Ginny was cut off by a knock on the door. Hermione looked at the door with an expression of mild annoyance.

"Go on," Hermione ushered, nervously glancing back at Ginny.

"No, really, we should get the door," Ginny suggested, extremely pleased with the timely interruption, which only exacerbated Hermione's fraying nerves. Before Hermione could stop her, or even say another word, Ginny was greeting the guests.

"Hello, Harry!" Ginny said cheerfully. "...And the creature who is unfortunately a relative of mine." Ginny said this with much less enthusiasm.

"Well, it's nice to see you, too." Ron said with just as much cheerfulness as his sister.

"Hey, Ginny," said Harry, as he shiftily glanced toward the kitchen. After saying hello to Hermione, he immediately made his move to depart: "Are you ready to go?"

Ginny looked back at Hermione, who made every grand effort to radiate her clearest _Ginny __Weasley__, don't you dare leave whatever this is on me! _warning message, but to no avail. Ginny, making the executive decision that it was best to not say another word, all but propelled Harry into the yard. She could practically hear them running from the house.

"What was that all about?" Hermione asked as she walked to the window. Pulling back the white curtain, she saw the couple walking down the road the way they had come, Harry's arm around Ginny's lower back. The two were conversing about something that obviously had them worried, and were most certainly _not _going in the direction of the park. Ron shrugged from behind her.

"Dunno..." he muttered quietly before nervously running his fingers through his flaming-red hair. Ironically, he wasn't trying to get his hair to stay down, but was rather trying to make it stick _up_ for fear of it being too neat. He stopped quite abruptly when Hermione turned back around.

"I talked to Ginny." Hermione sat down on a couch next to the door.

"Oh," Ron said. "Erm... you—you did?" He shifted on his feet. "What did you talk about?" Hermione couldn't help but notice how nervous he sounded as she sat down on the couch.

"Well, about your father's birthday dinner tomorrow, firstly. Then how she and Harry were going to the park." With that, she scoffed. _The little liar..._ "Also, about how you were coming up to visit me, only she never told me why. Not that I mind or anything, but normally you wouldn't come unless you were with Ginny or Harry." He sat down next to her on the couch, facing her.

"Yeah... oh yeah, about that..." He swallowed. "Hermione?" He looked away to watch her trace the design in the fabric with her index finger.

"Mmm-hm?"

"Have you..." he started, but he seemed to change his mind and steered the conversation in a new direction. "We're friends, right?" Hermione was taken aback by this question.

"Well, of course we are! What kind of question is that? Ron, you're being daft." Hermione smiled a little and she saw some tension leave Ron's shoulders. He even laughed a little.

"Well, yes, but... have you—" He still didn't seem to be pleased with his conversation. "Have you ever... thought about us being...?" He looked back at her eyes, holding his breath, only to find that she was looking at him with amusement. It was understandable; he wasn't making very much sense, not even to himself, let alone her. "_More_? More than _just_ friends?"

_Uh-oh_.

Despite all persevering attempts at denial, Hermione had almost had a feeling for weeks now that something like this might happen. She had started to notice small signs in Ginny's behavior, in Ron's comments, and Harry's conversations, but she had ignored it all too willingly. Today should have been a glaring confirmation; normally, Harry would have been in no hurry to leave (he'd much rather sit around and eat her homemade food). The only problem with accepting reality was that Hermione didn't want to have a conversation like this _today_. So what was Hermione's only option?

Play dumb.

"Well, sure," Hermione was surprised at how fast his nervous expression dissipated, and was instantly replaced with a glowing triumph. She was unfortunately less surprised at its immediate departure after she replied, "You and Ginny and Harry are all like family to me. Since my parents—" she paused slightly. "Since my parents died, each of you have been there for me," she said in a softer and quieter tone. "I can't ever thank you enough."

"No, no," Ron said in a tone just as soft. Ron had fears too; he _knew _that something like this would happen. What was he _thinking_? He didn't want to be the one to stir up bad memories. He thought he had waited long enough after her parents' accident to finally tell her, but now it obviously seemed that he hadn't waited long enough. But he couldn't turn back now. "I mean you and I. Have you ever thought that maybe we could be..." He didn't seem to know how to finish. He didn't need to however, because Hermione was starting to pity the blatant struggle she was pushing him through and had begun to pretend to _catch on. _She'd stopped tracing the design with her finger. "I mean not like family—but not friends—no I mean friends—but—" As he tried to explain himself further, his ears started to turn pink. "More than that—"

Momentarily, Hermione lost herself and tried to stifle a giggle, finding his genuineness more endearing and heartwarming to her than he could ever realize. She tried covering it with her hand but it was too late; Ron noticed. She knew it would be misconstrued and she desperately didn't want to hurt his feelings. After all, Hermione knew how flustered Ron could get and laughing wouldn't do anything to help in this situation.

"What's so funny?" Ron demanded indignantly. "I'm trying to say something!" he said, obviously frustrated with himself. Hermione sobered and calmed herself, making sure that she would listen intently to whatever he said next.

"I'm sorry, Ron." she said sincerely. "Go ahead and say what you were going to say."

"You know I'm not good with words," Ron started, staring at his hands in his lap. "I always say things I don't mean and mean things that I don't say." This brought a smile to Hermione's lips and some more tension lifted off his slouched shoulders. He locked gazes with her. "So I'm just going to have to say it." Then Ron did something that shocked her greatly.

He gently slid his hands over to hers. Clasping his fingers carefully around her small, newly calloused hands, he grasped them in both of his. The next thing he said showed no sign of nervousness, whether he felt it or not, and it had such a serious tone that Hermione couldn't tear her eyes away.

"Have you ever thought that we could be together?"

"I..." Hermione was too stunned to even form a sentence. "I suppose I have..." she whispered, still excruciatingly aware of his hands holding hers.

"I know this is sudden," Ron said. "Or perhaps not-so-sudden, but either way, I've liked you for a long time, Hermione. I always have, even if I didn't always know it. Ever since you and your parents moved here when you were little. I've only just realized it recently. I realized it before the… the accident." He glanced back up at Hermione's eyes, praying that she not cry. He didn't like bringing up any subject relating to how Hermione's parents died, especially _to_ her. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"No," Hermione said quietly. "It's okay... really. Go on." Then Hermione surprised him—and herself—when she slowly caressed his hands with her thumbs, encouraging him to continue. Empowered by this action, he nodded.

"I realized my feelings just before... and after it happened, I was just too afraid to say anything. I mean, I _still _am actually. I thought the timing may be too close to their passing. I didn't want you to feel like I was taking advantage of you... to put this on your shoulders when you had so much trouble and pressure there already with the farm and... and everything." Hermione nodded. "But it's been a while. Almost a year and... I hoped, I gathered up my courage—I—I'll understand if you don't _want—_I mean if you don't feel the same way—" He was getting flustered again, despite the fact that she was still massaging his hands and trying to keep him calm.

"No," Hermione whispered as she looked down at her lap where their hands rested. Ron's face instantly fell.

"Oh," He looked openly disappointed and hurt. "Well, I mean I can understand—"

"No, no!" Hermione said hastily, nervously looking up at him again quickly. "That's not what I meant... I meant—I—no, I... it's just..."

Logical Hermione, always so articulate and expressive, was suddenly having an inexplicably difficult time trying to find the right words to say. Ron's mind, meanwhile, had suddenly become the most eloquent machine in the country. A plethora of profane curses toppled over one another in his mind's eye as he waited in dread. Of course it was only the natural, sadistic course of the universe that would have his creative abilities in expression suddenly be capable the second it was not _his _turn to speak. _This is a complete and utter disaster_, he thought miserably.

"Ron, we've always been friends. And we'll always be friends... and.. We _could _be more than that..." She couldn't help but smile slightly as she noticed the way Ron's face started glowing again, albeit cautiously. That was the joy of being Ron's friend; one could see everything he was feeling, just written there on his face. But she needed to be clear. "It's just so... soon," Hermione concluded.

"I understand," Ron looked down and heaved a small sigh before looking back up into her brown eyes. "I promise, I really do... But... Will you think about us though?" Hermione nodded.

"Of course. I will. I promise." They both smiled bashfully at each other.

"Erm... well, I should probably be going." Ron said nervously, pulling his hands back from his hold and instantly regretting the loss of her touch. "Mum wanted me to pick up some ingredients from the market for dinner. Bill and Charlie are coming home tonight... Percy, Fred and George arrived yesterday. Dad's birthday dinner isn't until tomorrow, but you know mum; she'll use any excuse to make a large dinner... well, larger than normal anyway, considering the size of our family." Both laughed a little, despite the strain within the inherently lame joke, and were grateful to find an outlet for the awkwardness. "You're coming tomorrow, right?"

"Of course." Hermione smiled and Ron felt his stomach do a somersault. "I'll be there."

"Great then," Ron said as she opened the door and he stepped out. "I guess I'll see you there," he said going down the three steps and looking back up at her.

" I guess so." Hermione still smiled.

"Bye," he said as he waved and started to walk down the rock path.

"Bye..." Hermione whispered. She smiled at him and he smiled back, before she turned around, went inside and closed the door behind her.

Ron heard the door give a soft, indistinct thud as it closed tightly in its frame before turning to the road. Almost immediately, his smile morphed into an all too common combination of a scowl and a sulk. His shoulders gave way to defeat and he scuffed his feet along the pebbles as he walked down Hermione's driveway. As he neared the rocky bottom, he glanced back at the house, hoping to see her looking back out at him through the window. He was very much disappointed to see all of the window curtains closed and no figure peeking out through them. Ron sighed and turned back around, unfortunately also forgetting to duck under a certain obstacle that happened to stick out in the path. This resulted in him getting smacked between the eyes by the very large birch branch, adding to his already forming headache.

He stumbled backwards, rubbing his freckled forehead vigorously and releasing one of his imaginative string of curses with conviction. Still verbally attacking all tree branches, rocky driveways and Mother Nature for putting them on the planet in the first place, Ron stepped off the path and on to the main road. He made sure to kick a pebble for good measure. Ron could guarantee that Harry and Ginny would want to know what happened as soon as he returned and he was not at _all_ looking forward to the conversation.

Ron walked along the empty road, shivering as the almost-winter breeze nipped at his face. Autumn would soon be leaving their little town of Little Whinging, and the sky was becoming whiter with the cold every day. He stopped on the deserted road and rubbed his forehead slightly once more, easing the remaining stinging pain in his skull.

_Maybe, if I'm lucky, she'll come around by summer_, he thought with hope.

But Ron felt in his heart that after a lifetime's worth of disappointing, almost-there experiences, he was anything but lucky.

* * *

Hermione all but collapsed against the door.

This was _not_ what she needed right now...

It's not that she wasn't happy about Ron's sudden confession; she just had so much to _do_. With the bank pounding on her door every other day and her constant calculation of all the loans, with the constant sorting through of her inheritance from her parents, with tax collection just around the corner, with the farm needing tending to, with a house to clean...she barely had enough money for food, let alone taxes! _Forget_ money to pay off loans. She had too many responsibilities now; responsibilities that Ron or Harry or Ginny wouldn't have to deal with for a while.

The Weasleys weren't poor, but they weren't exactly wealthy (_with the size of their family, who could be?_). Mrs. Weasley stayed home most of the time to tend to their farm and house, cook meals, clean and the like. Meanwhile, Mr. Weasley worked as a researcher, studying more primitive cultures over in the New World. Some people of higher rank from London often looked down upon the Weasleys for Arthur Weasley's job, and she knew that his children had often received the brunt of most of the prejudice while in spending short periods of time in the city. Regardless, Mr. Weasley made enough money to get by and with an organized budget, the family managed to have amenities and luxuries that people with more "acceptable" occupations enjoyed. Hermione knew with a rising sense of bitterness that Ginny and Ron (and Harry, who was living with the Weasleys) wouldn't have to worry about finances for a long time.

She sighed and stepped away from the door, squashing her envy in an instant. She couldn't just sit around and _think_ when there was work to be done. She went to the kitchen and took the food she bought at the market out of her satchel. She put the bread and sugar away before walking to her small bedroom, then set the satchel on the hook on the wall to the left of her bed and went to close the white curtains at her two windows. Before she pulled them shut however, she looked around outside.

It had almost been a year now... it was just last winter that her parents had died.

Hermione shook her head. She noted that the leaves had long ago changed colors and begun to fall. The bare trees signaled the oncoming winter, and it looked as if it would be an especially cold one to boot. _All the more reason to get moving_, she told herself. It was already far past midday and she hadn't even done her normal chores.

She stepped out of her bedroom and walked toward the back door. It was a rather small but well-kept area containing a large horse stable, a barn, a high-fenced pasture, and a chicken coop. Past that was a large open field with tall grass browned from the abusive winds. Much farther back to the left was a cliff with much shorter grass; one could see the entire town from there. It was a beautiful scene: the small village encased by valleys and hills, folded into blankets of green and gold sun rays under soft bundles of ever-changing clouds. Sometimes, when she was younger, she would sit out there alone at sunset and watch it drop over the horizon while her father bailed the hay and the scent of her mother's cooking wafted out into the clearing.

She hadn't had time to do any of that since her parents' funeral.

With a sigh, she gazed past the cliff, and stared. There, looming over her, was what her village called the Forbidden Forest.

Despite her father's assurances of their home's relative safety, she had rightfully never gone very far into the forest and had never gone in alone. It extended all the way into the next three neighboring villages, but no one knew how deep or how dense the forest had really grown. Hermione had only gone in with her father once when they were desperate for firewood in a particularly cold winter. They had only ventured in a few meters, just enough so they could still see the house through the trees, and Hermione had used every ounce of her courage to impress her father by holding in her young whimpers. It was not long until they had quickly hurried back out, and she had never gone in again. Her parents always forbade it; they told her it was dangerous, and she didn't need to be told twice.

Even the old-man-storyteller in the market had a story about this particular forest. Alastor Moody, better known as "Mad-Eye Moody" or just "Mad-Eye," wore clothes that were always dirty and a worn, leather eye patch. He had long gray hair and a big chunk missing from his nose, and Mad-Eye always sat on a silver bucket near the fountain in the town square to tell the children stories as long as they shared a small slice of bread. People in the town thought him insane, but listened to his harmless, entertaining tales anyway.

Hermione and her mother had passed by the old man one day when Hermione was around the age of seven, just after she had moved to Little -Eye said that on the other side of the forest was a beautiful kingdom with a King and Queen and even a Prince. It was a place where everybody was happy and there was no such thing as war or hunger. To logical Hermione, this place did not hold a high likelihood of existence, but she nevertheless liked a good fantasy tale. Her mother had been concerned that this story would encourage her to enter the forest at first, thinking that her daughter might frolic into forest thinking that there was a wonderful kingdom located on the other side, but was soon put at ease. She could tell by Hermione's reaction that her head was much too properly seated on her shoulders to be concerned.

Hermione remembered a boy younger than she asking Mad-Eye how he knew such things. Mad-Eye grunted and replied that he had gone through the forest, _of course_. The children looked highly skeptical, but continued to listen intently. Hermione pleaded for her mother to let her listen to the rest of the story, but her mother declined and told her that they didn't have enough time to stay any longer. Hermione sighed and grudgingly walked back to her home, holding onto her mother's hand. Luckily for Hermione, she hadn't missed much. As she had confirmed with one of the other children later in the week, the story hand ended quite soon after her departure because there was nothing more to tell. Mad-Eye told the story of the forest quite often, and the children quickly grew tired of hearing it, for it was the same every time. Some would listen to the story only to see if there were any additions but were quickly disappointed. When Mad-Eye realized that the children were becoming less interested, he adapted, and only shared the tale when a newcomer came. Mad-Eye told many other stories to suit his audience's needs, such as the young boy who escaped a giant dragon with a flying broomstick, or the young girl who traveled through time to save the life of a magical creature. The stories grew more bizarre and less believable with the passing years.

Hermione had passed Mad-Eye with her mother again seven years later, when Hermione was fourteen. Hermione was surprised to hear Mad-Eye telling the story of the forest yet again to a large group of children again. Only this time, it was a much different version.

_"There isn't a happy castle there now, ye hear?" Mad-Eye had growled in his usual voice. "It's all dark, always gloomy. The King and Queen are gone; most of the people are too. The only thing that's left of the whole kingdom is the shadowy old fortress, deserted... The Prince, who used to be loved and adored by the kingdom, is now in hiding. No one knows why. Some people say the Prince suddenly turned so ugly that anyone who looks at him would die right there on the spot, like from a Basilisk. Other people say the Prince became an evil sorcerer and turned all of the servants and royal subjects into broomsticks and teacups!" Mad-Eye paused. "Whatever the reason, he's hiding up there in that castle of his."_

Hermione doubted that anyone would ever die from seeing someone truly ugly, just as she doubted there being a sorcerer turning the people who adored him into inanimate objects, and she told this to her mother with a haughty air, convinced that as a young adult, she was too mature to be fooled by a children's story. But as usual, it was only a Mad-Eye Moody story, not something that should be taken too seriously. Although people were interested in the new version, it too quickly grew old and Mad-Eye had to revert back to more enticing tales.

Hermione hadn't heard him tell the story since.

* * *

After a few hours had passed and the kitchen was clean, Hermione grabbed a basket that was sitting to the left of the door and headed towards the chicken coop to gather eggs.

She honestly didn't know how she felt about Ron anymore. She had had a rather large crush on him when she was younger, but he never showed any signs indicating that the feeling was mutual. Hermione still remembered her very first day in the town. She was about to turn seven-years-old and was feeling very of shy that day, and had pleaded with her father to just let her hide in her room forever with her books. But then as she was emerging from the door, five-year-old Ginny walked up the driveway with Mrs. Weasley. Hermione remembered how tired and out of breath Ginny looked, but how upbeat and rosy Molly had been.

Mrs. Weasley offered them a homemade mince pie (and continued to offer them one every Christmas, which they gratefully accepted) and invited them to dinner so that they could be later introduced to all of town. It was no surprise that Hermione and Ginny had become good friends very quickly, and Hermione's mother smiled as Hermione left her books inside her new room to walk to the other side of town with the two Weasleys.

Hermione played with Ginny all day. In her old town, she had mostly kept to herself and did nothing but read. Hermione had never gone to school in either town as her father home-schooled her, so it had been a very nice change to have a friend like Ginny. Ginny taught her how to play hide and seek, which would quickly become Hermione's favorite game. Her parents came over for dinner that night with a large loaf of bread for the Weasleys, at which point Hermione met both Ron and his best friend Harry. Harry's parents had died from a mysterious disease when he was very young, for which he had some indescribable genetic immunity that confounded doctors everywhere. Since he had no living family (except for his godfather, but rumor had it that he was insane and not capable of being a guardian for Harry), the Weasleys took him in. Despite the overwhelming amount of food that was consistently served at the Weasleys, Harry was very thin for his age. He wore spectacles and had messy hair, part of which covered an odd-shaped scar on his forehead he received when he was only a baby in some carriage accident, not long after the death of his parents, in fact.

At first, Ron and Harry didn't pay much attention to Hermione. At first presumed to be just another tag-along like Ginny, Hermione thoroughly shocked them once they had seen how fast she could run while playing tag and they discovered how clever her hiding spots were. It didn't take long before deemed her a worthy ally, and Ginny was admitted into the team as well. Their friendships had only strengthened since; Ginny had remained her best friend, and Hermione Ginny's. Hermione couldn't run nearly as fast anymore, but then again, she had no time for tag. Neither did they.

Despite their close connection, Ginny and Hermione began to grow in distinctly separate directions over the years. Despite the fact that Ginny was a year younger than Hermione, she consistently had many more "relationships" and kept her conversations with Hermione regularly occupied with advice and proverbial "boy trouble." At first, Hermione had worried that perhaps there was something developmentally wrong with her, but eventually she realized that she just hadn't been as interested in boys as Ginny had been. True, she had crushes, like with Ron, for example, or when the rather well known cricket player Viktor Krum had visited town, but that's all they ever were. Hermione had wild brown hair that she "too often" forced into braid as her sole battle strategy, and when she was younger, she had grown increasingly self-conscious of her large front teeth. She was grateful when they finally fell out and new ones grew in.

Hermione thought that she was pretty in her own way. Ginny was more outgoing and didn't always have her nose in a book, like everyone said Hermione did, so Hermione understood why men weren't as drawn to her as her friend. Hermione was fine with that. She had decided that when she found love, she would want it to last. She wanted more than a simple crush—she wanted a passion, a supportive connection… a challenge.

_Ron was probably the closest one to do any of that,_ she admitted, walking out of the chicken coop with a basket full of large white eggs. _But not quite..._ _Maybe time would change that though? It'd probably be better for me. He would take care of me and protect me. He wouldn't let anything hurt me. He'd love me... _She set the basket on the kitchen table to go outside and do her other chores. _But could I ever return the feelings? I don't know..._

So Ron wanted to court her? Ron, who had always accused her of being boring, who had only realized that she was more than bookworm tomboy just three years earlier?

Hermione thought on this until the sun began to set and the sky began to turn different shades of purples, oranges and reds. She finished her other chores before walking to the horse stable, which was occupied by her two most prized possessions. The first one, old Ronan, was especially helpful in plowing but the other, Auror, was her unabashed favorite. He had a beautiful brown coat with a white diamond marking between his eyes and a dark mane and tail. On the other hand, Ronan, his elder, had no markings, but was especially strong and fast. Auror was sometimes even entered into competitions, in which he usually won Hermione gracious amounts of prize money. But what made him even more special was that Auror had been given to her as a special gift from her parents two years after she came to the small town of Little Whinging. A horse that could grow up with her, that could teach her responsibility. Hermione had never felt so proud.

"Auror," she whispered with a smile. "The perfect name from my favorite children's book." She stepped inside the stable and smirked at her two most precious companions. "I bet you still don't know anything about a boy wizard story, but you like your name all the same, don't you?" She refilled their oat buckets and prepared the horses to be taken outside for a while before they went back in for the night. Ronan and Auror both responded to Hermione's belated actions with annoyance in their own horse manner, neighing at her when she took them out of their stalls.

"Sorry," Hermione said. "I couldn't get you out any earlier." She patted Ronan on the neck in an apologetic sort of way, before going to Auror to do the same thing. "Was a little distracted, you know."

They happily nipped at the carrots she fed them and she took them outside the stable. She led them over to the pasture and shut the wooden gate behind them, choosing to watch them for a bit. When she turned around, she saw the tall-grassy area and behind that, the cliff from where she had viewed the sunset so many times before. Hermione sighed.

_I'll just sit for awhile_, Hermione thought. Her chores were done and she was exhausted. With everything that had happened that day, she had good reason to be.

She walked to the cliff, reveling tall pieces of grass that brushed against her increasingly dirty dress. She avoided the edge and plopped herself on the much shorter grass with a sigh. Leaning back with her hands behind her and her legs extended in front of her, Hermione lazily watched the sun continue its descent over the horizon.

Hermione didn't know for how long she sat there, but when she finally stood and brushed the dirt off herself, the sun was well out of view, and the full moon was already visible. After she stood up, she spotted the first few stars to shine that night. Hermione suddenly remembered the nursery rhyme she learned as a child about wishing on stars. Hermione smiled a little. Could she wish for Ron and her to be together? For their happiness? Was it what she wanted? She was staring at the dazzling star above her, when Ronan made a soft noise and nudged his mouth up against a piece of wood in the gate. The wishing star was forgotten as Hermione made her way back through the tall grass and a cool breeze rustled Hermione's hair. She gave a small shudder.

"I'll be right back," Hermione told the two horses as Ronan continued to nudge the gate. Auror had now joined Ronan at the fence and was staring at her. "I'm just going to get my cloak!" Hermione walked in through the back door, stepping inside and moving toward three hooks nailed into the wall. With dismay, Hermione remembered why only one hook was occupied. She slipped the black cotton cloak from the wall and put it on as she returned outside to the fence.

"There you go," Hermione whispered soothingly to the two horses as she opened the gate and stepped inside the fence. "Come on now." Hermione took the reins around Ronan's neck with one hand and gently pulled him outside the fence. She closed the gate and locked it again. "I'll be right back, Auror, don't you worry."

She walked Ronan back to the stable and secured him in his stall. When she was sure that he was locked in, she headed back to the fenced area. Auror was waiting patiently for her when she returned. He was staring at her intently, his two big, glassy black eyes focused on her.

"Good boy, Auror." Hermione whispered as she opened the gate. "That's a good boy, come here." Hermione stepped inside and grabbed the reins around his brown neck and gently pulled him toward the gate. "Come on," she whispered as she walked back through the gate. "Now just a second," she told him as she went to lock the gate again. "Good boy." Hermione praised him, rubbing his neck lovingly. "Okay, time to go back to the stable. Come on." Auror followed Hermione as she started to tug on his reins again.

Hermione headed to the barn with Auror, patting his neck and whispering something occasionally. Half way to the barn, Auror stopped. Hermione tugged gently at his reins.

"Come on, Auror." she whispered. She tugged at his reins more forcefully. "Auror," she said. "_move_."

But he did not. He had planted his hooves firmly into the dry soil and was not moving in the slightest. Hermione pulled at his reins but still Auror made so sign of wanting to go anywhere. She turned toward him, about to snap something at him and once again try pitifully to move him when she noticed that his gaze was transfixed. Hermione turned in the direction where Auror was staring.

The forest.

Her brows knitted in confusion. She turned back to Auror, who was still staring into the woods, then back to the trees. She held her breath and listened intently to her surroundings. There were no crickets, no birds, and no distant, indistinct far off sounds coming from down the road and in the town. A slight breeze rustled her hair and yet, there were no sounds of leaves rustling. She gave a sharp intake of breath as the cold wind nipped at her face and she wrapped her cloak tighter around herself.

_Winter's almost here,_ she thought. _It'll probably snow soon._

Hermione shook her head; suddenly she could hear crickets in the field and owls hooting from the distant trees. _Strange. It must have been just the wind, _she reasoned. It had grown very dark while she was putting the horses away and now the blackness had almost fully taken over. The tree branches blew in the wind and Hermione could once again hear the leaves whispering over the whistle of the breeze. Hermione looked around.

"Come _on_, Auror." Hermione said. "Let's get you in the stable then we both can get some sleep, okay?" Hermione said, patting his head. Auror continued to stare at the forest and stay put.

"Auror, I'm serious. This is not _cute._" Not only was Hermione getting increasingly annoyed at his behavior, but she was really starting to worry. She swore that not even thirty seconds before, she couldn't hear anything. It had been eerily silent and she was sure that it wasn't because she had gone temporarily deaf.

Something was wrong.

Which was _all _the more reason for Auror to get his big brown tail into the stable and for her to go inside lock all doors and windows and try to get some sleep. But Auror wasn't cooperating.

"Auror," she pleaded. "Come on... _please_. What's wrong with you?" Hermione stood in front of him and pulled at his reins with all her might. He just stared.

"Ugh!" Hermione groaned and held her hands up in frustration, dropping the reins. Hermione put her hands on her forehead than ran them through her untidy hair, which had long ago fallen loose of its braid. The wind was still blowing gently, picking up every once in awhile to send a shiver down her spine.

"This is just _great—_"

But Auror had already taken off toward the forest.

"Auror?" Hermione quickly let her hands fall to her sides and with a look of horror she watched her horse run away. "Auror!" Hermione cried and started run after him.

But Auror was galloping at his fullest speed, and disappeared into the forest before she could even make it half way. Panting and gasping for breath, Hermione skidded to a halt in the tall grassy field.

"Auror!" Her shout tore out with unadulterated despair and confusion.

She stood there in the middle of the field, staring into the quiet forest with the moon shining down on her and the wind rustling her cloak and hair.

_What do I do?_ she thought. _Should I go get help? But what if something happens to him before someone can get up here? _The memory of her parents warning her about the wild animals in the forest came to mind and a knot began twisting in her stomach. _What if something hurts him? He's my best horse. Not only do I need him for the contests, but... Mom... Dad._ Hermione sighed. _I can't just let him go in there and not even try to get him back._

Hermione stepped closer to the forest. She continued walking until she reached the end of the field but then stopped again.

_But what if something happens to me?_ She thought, the knot twisting more violently. The memory of her parents' warning resurfaced. _I don't have any protection, no guns..._ She instantly regretted not getting a gun earlier. Her father only had one when he was alive, but that was long gone. And when Hermione had thought about getting a new one, she figured that she wouldn't need one. Logical Hermione, of course, had chosen not to after taking the nonexistent local crime rate into consideration as well as the fact that she was not a hunter, but what good did those excuses do her now? Her parents had told her the forest was dangerous. She believed them now more than ever. And in all honesty, she knew the real reason for not wanting one. _Not after what happened. _

The wind blew, rustling her hair and her cloak again. She heard owls hooting off in the distance. _Why am I just standing here?_ _It must have been a few minutes already. Auror can't have gone too far and if I were to go and get help they might as well just say it's hopeless before they even get up here. I can't just leave him alone in the woods. My sense of direction isn't too shabby, and I went camping a couple of times before. If I need to I can always use some of Dad's old 'survival tips' on how to get home. _She told herself this, though she desperately wished it wouldn't come to that. _Right, I can't just let him stay in there alone and not even try to help._

With that in mind, Hermione ran out of the field and towards the forest, hesitating slightly as she reached the entrance. With a quick shake of her head and her mind set on finding Auror, she quickly ran through the forest, taking the path that she took with her father to get firewood. She reached the spot where they had gathered the wood in no time at all and only grew more anxious as she pressed on.

She continued to run down the path (_That's odd—a path in this forest?)_, and started calling out Auror's name for some time before she finally ran out of air and had to slow down to a brisk walk. She kept glancing over her shoulder, expecting Auror to be there or... something else. Her shouts became whispers.

Eventually, Hermione had gotten so deep into the forest that she could barely make out the moon through the thick tree branches. From what she could see, the giant pine trees were bunched up together so densely that it seemed unnatural, and the branches were thick with needles. Occasionally, she'd bump into a particularly large branch that happened to grow out into the way of the path and was showered with dry pine needles. The only things she could hear were her steady footsteps against the dirt, the occasional whisper from the wind blowing the leaves, and her heart beating loudly in her ears.

She had been walking for quite some time when she gave up on calling for Auror. It seemed that the deeper she went into forest, the quieter it grew, and the more breaking the silence grew more daunting. Hermione had thought about turning back quite a few times on her way, but now the thought seemed more tempting than ever. The forest had gone so quiet that Hermione was afraid to breathe too loudly. She began to wonder why she even bothered to come in. How had she expected to find Auror anyway? _He could be anywhere; he might not have even taken the path... he could have wandered off into the trees. He could even be dead..._

_No,_ She thought. _Please don't let him be dead._ She walked along the path, her heart thumping loudly in her ears; everything else was inaudible. _I'm so stupid._ _Stupid, stupid,_ stupid_. I'm supposed to be logical Hermione_. _I should just go home..._ Yet she continued walking. Her mind was thinking about going home and yet her feet were continuing to go forward. _I can't stand the thought of leaving Auror, but what else am I going to do? Walk around the dangerous forest until I starve to death? Or get eaten by some animal? _She stopped. _This is hopeless..._

Hermione sighed and was about to turn around when something caught her eye. Up ahead there was a rustling noise and the sound of hooves trotting towards her. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw the moonlight reflect off a piece of metal in mid-air, just around the height of her eyes.

"Auror?" Hermione whispered fearfully, praying with all her might that it was. She didn't know what she'd do if it wasn't… she was pretty sure she wouldn't be able to do anything.

Indeed, it was Auror, and he soon came into full view, his brown coat and mane a glossy black in the darkness and his white marking a dark gray. He neighed happily at the sight of her and stared at her intently. He didn't seem to be hurt and his reins were still around his neck.

"Auror!" she cried quietly, reaching out to pat his neck as he slowly walked toward her. "You scared me half to death! What were you _thinking_?" Hermione snapped at him but her giant smile did not leave her face. "I don't know why you did what you did, but..." she sighed. "Let's... just go home." Now that she had found Auror, she didn't want to stay in the forest any longer. She stopped petting him and reached for his reins. "Okay, let's go." Hermione said as she started to walk down the path in the direction of her home. But Auror wouldn't move.

"Ugh!" Hermione groaned, careful not to let the reins slip out of her hand. "Not this again!" She looked him in the eyes. "What is _wrong_ with you?" She stared at him angrily before softening a bit. "_Please_, Auror..." she whispered. "Let's. Go. Home."

But Auror only stared at her. Then, with Hermione still holding onto the reins, Auror turned around and faced the dark deserted path in front of them. Hermione stared at the back of his head in confusion and total astonishment before Auror started walking down the path, his hooves giving soft 'thuds' as he walked on the dry soil.

"Auror?" she asked and began tugging at his reins again. He kept walking. "_Auror_?" she asked a little louder, no longer caring about the forest's sacred silence. Hermione dug her heels into the ground but she still slid forward with his movements. Rather than be dragged to wherever Auror was going, she started walking along side him, occasionally pulling on his reins and trying to stop him again. Each time however, was unsuccessful. Hermione's apprehension about the forest had not decreased in the slightest and walking further into the forest did not please her at all, especially since she had Auror again.

Hermione wrapped the cloak around her more tightly and lifted the hood up over her head. She was shivering from the dank, cold air and desperately wished she were at home in her nice warm bed. She walked closer to Auror and tried to absorb some of his body heat. Every now and then, Hermione would glance to each side of her, listening intently for anything that might be lurking in the darkness. She didn't hear anything and didn't see anything, but that didn't calm the horrible sensation she felt when she walked unarmed through the blackness. Just because she didn't see anything didn't mean nothing was there. She could almost sense something else far off in the trees…

As Hermione was trying to halt her horse for the umpteenth time, she spotted a rather small, dark creature flying towards her. Hermione's eyes widened and her mouth fell open slightly. Was some dangerous animal finally coming to attack? _But it's a bird… well, it can still peck my eyes out, _Hermione thought with a shudder and once again pulled the cloak tight around her. She gasped quietly and stopped pulling on the reins as she watched the bird-like figure swoop down and land on a high tree branch to her left. Two yellow eyes stared down at her.

"An…owl?" Hermione whispered. She couldn't see properly in the dark but she was sure it was an owl. An eagle owl most likely, if her memory served her correctly, but she'd have to see it in the light to know exactly. It watched their movements intently. Hermione stared into the golden orbs while Auror continued to walk down the path, unfazed.

Hermione finally tore her eyes away from the animal's gaze. The animal flew over their heads, circling them twice before soaring with unbelievable speed straight ahead down the path. Hermione stared in front of her and for the first time realized that up ahead it was noticeably lighter. For how long now had the density of the trees been thinning? It almost looked as if there were an exit... Hermione raised a sable brow. It appeared to be a clearing of some sort… Despite the distance away from the supposed clearing, Hermione could see rays of moonlight shining down on the ground. And there was something falling to the ground. Was that… snow? _Is this why the path is here? _Hermione thought._ To get to this clearing?_

"What on Earth..." Hermione inquired silently to no one in particular. As Auror and Hermione got closer, Hermione began to think that what they were walking towards was actually the end of the forest. Hermione wondered just how far she had wandered in.

She had to be in at least a few good miles; she had been walking for hours and her legs had grown tired. Her muscles were sore and she was drowsy from the lack of sleep. Her head was aching and her eyelids were stubbornly heavy. When she had run into the forest she hadn't expected to have gone in this far. But she hadn't expected Auror not to come home willingly either…

As she remembered this, Hermione made a move as if she was going to start pulling on Auror's reins again, but she realized that she was only twenty feet away from the edge, and to try to turn back now was pointless. So Hermione, defeated and unsatisfied, let Auror continue walking her towards the clearing without any tension in his reigns. The eagle owl was sitting up on a branch at eye-level to her right, in one of the last trees before the open space.

Hermione could clearly see the moonlight shining down on the open soil now. She could see that the ground had a thin layer of white snow, which an ambivalently welcome contrast to the hours of near complete darkness. As Hermione and Auror stepped out of the trees, she shielded her eyes and looked away to the ground at Auror's feet. When she removed her hand from her face and looked up at the rows of trees, her eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar light. Hermione patted Auror on the neck a little before turning towards the middle of the clearing. Only…

This was no clearing.

She gasped loudly as her eyes traveled along the impossible height of a giant, ominous castle in the middle of the trees. Tall, domineering pines and an overbearing mountain surrounded the large castle and the full moon hung over the area like a condemning eye from the heavens. All the world seemed to have gained a bluish tint, and it looked to logical Hermione as though it had been plucked straight from a fairy tale.

A _terribly-written _fairy tale, she decided.

"Goodness," Hermione whispered. "Mad-Eye was right about the castle..." Hermione's brows drew together in concentration. She'd always thought that he made them up either for the children's entertainment or for his own sake and lack of sanity. She had never actually considered that the tale might be _true_. Hermione shook her head. No. This was a dream. It had to be.

But her leg hurt very badly when she reached down to give it a good pinch. Wincing at her own strength, Hermione investigated further. Hermione was astounded at the sheer size of the pine trees. The ones that were on the side of the forest where Hermione lived were very tall, but were nothing compared to the ones surrounding this castle. Hermione wasn't surprised at how difficult it might be to see in the forest now that she saw just how tall the trees loomed. From the way it appeared, as she had walked through the forest, the trees might actually have been growing in size. Hermione wondered just how she had never managed to see the castle before, from back on her side of the forest. The castle was so big... but these trees... was this natural?

Hermione continued to marvel at the scene when a noise broke her from her reverie. Hermione snapped her head in the direction of the path only to see that Auror was galloping away back down the path. She looked down at her hand to see that she had yet again dropped the reins.

"Auror!" Hermione cried, but he soon faded out of view into the darkness. Mentally cursing herself for yet _another _extreme display of carelessness that day, Hermione slapped her head in aggravation. It all seemed like some wild goose chase and some stupid joke, only no one was laughing. Hermione really did not want to run back and forth through a dangerous forest during the night chasing after an _ungrateful _horse. Hermione swore that if Auror went back in the forest again once they got home, no matter how much she loved him, he would be left to his own sources.

Hermione took a step toward the forest but was startled when the eagle owl, which had been watching the pair from the tree branch the entire time, swooped down in front of her, hooted loudly and planted itself firmly in the center of the entrance to the path, facing her. Hermione's eyebrows shot into her hairline, and she stepped to the left to walk around the owl. Unfortunately, the owl only mirrored her actions by stepping to its right, and subsequently blocked her from the path. Hermione scoffed and took two steps to her right. The owl once again imitated her and cut her off again.

"Well," Hermione whispered. "I thought I couldn't get any crazier tonight, but it seems I'm mistaken." She jumped backwards, the owl hopped forwards. Hermione went to the left; the owl went to its right. Suddenly Hermione jumped to the right twice, then to the left, forward then backward three paces, her arms flailing about madly. When she stopped, she stared at the owl, waiting for its reaction.

The owl merely cocked its head to the side interestedly and gave an amused hoot. Hermione groaned in frustration and brought her hands up to her eyes. She peered through her fingers at the eagle owl. Ever so carefully, Hermione slid her right foot to the right, the owl imitating her. Suddenly, Hermione jerked her hands away from her face, feinting to the left, and started sprinting forward into the forest. She only made it a few steps before the owl had once again planted itself firmly on the dirt in front of her, gave a stubborn hoot, and stared.

"Agh!" Hermione groaned, gripping her untidy hair in her hands. "What do you want?" she spat angrily at the owl. "_What_?"

The owl gave a hearty hoot and cocked its head to the side once more, staring at her bemusedly. This was not helpful.

"What?" Hermione repeated. "What do you _want _from me?" she asked again. "You want me to stay out here all night? Stay out in the middle of nowhere, miles away from home while my stupid horse has already scared the life out of me?" she asked the owl, stooping low so she could stare at it at its eye-level. "Or what?" Hermione laughed, without any actual mirth in her tone. "You want me to stay up in that castle?" She pointed behind her. "Go up and knock on those big doors and ask some empty suit of rusty armor for a cup of _tea_? Go in and find the place littered with broomsticks and teacups, like good ol' Mad-Eye suggested? Is that it? The castle?" Hermione asked sarcastically.

Then she smiled a very sad smile. She was sitting there, talking to an owl in the middle of the night, beyond a dangerous forest, asking the owl if it wanted her to go spend the night up in the not-so-imaginary castle with only magical teacups and broomsticks for company… _If only the village could see me now, _she thought.

The owl hooted happily and bobbed up and down with joy. Hermione leaned back and looked the owl with total astonishment.

"You're kidding," she said, incredulously. The owl flapped its wings fervently. "You're not…" Hermione said slowly. "You're _not_."

Hermione gave a large, exasperated sigh before letting her head fall down to her chest. Still kneeling on the snow-covered ground, not caring if her dress was getting even dirtier or if her face and hair was spotted with grime and mud, Hermione looked back at the eagle owl.

"Fine." Hermione said. "Fine." she repeated. "You win."

She stood up slowly and the owl continued to bounce with delight. Then after one last final hearty hoot, the owl took off and fled towards an open window in a tall tower. Hermione watched it soar up to one of the highest towers and perched itself on open stone window. Hermione raised her eyebrows once again at the owl's peculiar antics before turning towards the castle doors.

Was she really going to try and enter?

Hermione shivered and pulled her cloak tighter around her. She realized that her hood had fallen down (she assumed it was during her pathetic little dance to confuse the owl) and that her messy hair was now sprinkled with ice crystals. She brushed them off quickly, shivering as some melted and slid down her back, then pulled her hood back up over her head.

Hermione continued to stare at the castle. She bit her bottom lip, considering her options. On the one hand, she could turn back and go through the forest again, but she already hated this option. She did not like the idea of going back in there in the middle of the night, still unarmed, exhausted and ready to drop to the ground at any given moment. What if something finally did decide to attack her? She'd be worse than when she started earlier that evening, and she wasn't that great to begin with.

On the other hand, she could at least try to go in the castle. It seemed absolutely pointless; spending the night up in a deserted, empty castle all alone. Then a new horrible thought entered Hermione's mind, _What if criminals were using the castle to hide out? No,_ she thought. _That's ludicrous._

The snow continued to fall as she contemplated her options. She was growing colder by the minute. If she didn't make up her mind soon, she'd freeze to death. Forget wild animals; hypothermia or pneumonia was more of a threat at the moment.

Finally, Hermione, covered in snow, freezing to the bone and tired beyond belief, decided to spend the night in the castle. As soon as the sun rose, she'd quickly make her way back through the forest and when she got home and see if Auror was there. If he was… well, she'd be angry. She knew that much. Then she could go back to her life and look back on this one day and laugh. But somehow she didn't think that this was or would ever be a laughing matter.

_If Auror weren't home…_ she didn't want to think about the possibility. If he weren't home then she would have to buy a new horse. But she'd need money, which was something she didn't have and she didn't have time to scrounge around for any. She already owed enough to the town for the past year alone, and couldn't borrow anymore. She'd have to count on old Ronan, and pray that he was still competent in his old age. If Ronan were to die from the increased workload, she didn't know what she'd do. The hole in which she was trapped seemed to be getting deeper and deeper, but she couldn't worry about all this now, not when snow was starting to pile on her eyelashes.

Hermione shook her head and brushed the snow off again. Giving an exhausted sigh she stepped in the direction of the castle doors. They seemed taller and more ominous looking then ever. She stared at them as she walked and swallowed hard when she reached the giant silver door handles. There was one handle on each door, large and blue in the snow's reflection of the moonlight. Both handles were roughly half Hermione's size.

On the left, the handle was in the shape of the torso of a badger's body and a large raven's head. The raven's head, complete with very detailed silver engravings of the feathers, was peering over the badger, whose body was likewise exquisite in detail. The most disturbing were the eyes. They were nothing more than smooth silver mounds between what were supposed to be the silver folds of skin. Both mouths were open wide and on each face was an expression that looked to Hermione as if they had been captured between a ferocious snarl and a horrifyingly painful cry. Hermione swallowed again at the sight of their faces. The badger's left paw was curved upward and touched its left shoulder, creating what Hermione assumed was the actual handle.

On the right was a similar handle, only instead of the badger and raven, there was a lion and a serpent, both with their mouths raging open. The lion took the place of the badger, also only half of its body visible. The lion had a large silvery mane and two blank mounds for eyes. Hermione nervously looked at the amount of sharp, gleaming teeth sticking out from the lion's mouth before mentally slapping herself.

Did she really think the silvery lion was going to come to life and attack her? Still, she'd rather not think of anything even remotely frightening until she was in better circumstances and broad daylight. The lion's mane took up most of the handle and covered a quarter of the body visible. Then, circling the stomach of the lion was the serpent. The silver, scaly reptile's tail started at the front of the lion's body and bent upwards and hid itself behind the lion, creating a large handle like the badger's paw. The other end of the tail twisted itself fully around the mammal's midsection, then cut behind the lion's head and peered out to the left. The snake's head was to the lion's right and rested its open jaw, which was complete with two very sharp, venomous looking teeth and snake-like tongue, on the lion's furry shoulder. Rather than looking hurt or angry like the badger and raven, these two new animals looked hungry for blood and ready to kill. Hermione stared into the eyes of the snake and lion for a moment or two, taking in the extreme detail of each before slowly reaching for the snake's tail.

_Whoever used to live in this castle,_ Hermione thought. _ Obviously didn't like visitors… _

She watched her hand move towards the handle then, feeling her hand clasp the icy metal, her eyes quickly jumped back up to the eyes of each animal. Looking back at her hand, she slowly pulled, not sure just how heavy the large door would be.

It didn't require much effort to open enough to get in, but she merely opened it wide enough to allow herself some room, then let go of the handle and started to walk inside, giving the handles one last glance before walking in all the way. They had to have been very old, and couldn't have been used in many years. They had looked almost polished to Hermione outside, but it could have just been the moonlight. Hermione shrugged and squinted in the blackness.

Inside was dark and her eyes had to adjust to the new light again. She pushed the door closed gently then turned back around. Pulling down her hood slowly, still letting her eyes adjust to the light, Hermione gently called out into the darkness.

"Hello?"

* * *

Thanks for reviewing! I appreciate it very much! It helps me a lot and actually pushes me to write!


	3. A Castle's Nighttime Activities

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes**: Thank you so much for reviewing. - And again – thanks a lot to my wonderful beta Irene, who helps me in so many different ways.

**Author's Notes EDIT: **_7/22/11. _Taking a break from writing Chapter 13 to go back and clean up my previous chapters!

* * *

_Inside was dark and her eyes had to adjust to the new light again. Letting her eyes get used to the darker scenery, she turned around to find two ordinary, circular door handles. She then gently closed the door and turned back around._

_Pulling down her hood slowly, still letting her eyes adjust to the lack of light, Hermione called out into the darkness._

_"Hello?"_

* * *

"Hello?" Hermione repeated. It was silly, really. Hermione didn't know why she called out; it was obvious she wouldn't get an answer. She looked around in the darkness and found herself in what looked like a giant entrance hall… The area alone looked as if it could fit a house inside. The ceiling and stone walls were extremely high and the corridor was very long. Slowly, Hermione began to walk down the large hallway.

Hermione could make out dark marble under her feet, and she tried not to think too hard about the cold, unfeeling sounds her footsteps made against the grey. If she squinted hard enough, she could swear that there was a glass chandelier hanging from the ceiling at the very end. Small windows in the walls held old wax candles, and Hermione saw three suits of armor standing side by side as she walked past. _Alas_, she noted with bitter humor, _no teacups or broomsticks nearby..._

Despite its rather ominous appearance and its old age, it seemed to Hermione that it might really still be quite beautiful. At least, she suspected, in the daytime. She could start to make out what looked like a grand marble staircase up in front of her, and just before that, to the right was a doorway to what looked like a very _large_ room. Hermione stared at it as she walked, trying to figure out what it was. _It's huge..._ She thought. _Maybe that's where the people used to have balls or—_

"Ssssh!"

Hermione whipped around. Trying not to make a sound, she squinted into the darkness behind her. She could've sworn she had heard voices... and a quick shuffle of movement as well. She stared at one of sconces about ten feet behind her, but saw nothing. She slowly turned back around, finally letting out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding in.

Hermione continued walking down the corridor. This time with softer footsteps, quieter breaths, and a glance or two over her shoulder much more frequently...

* * *

"She almost heard us..."

"Do ya think?"

"She... she looked this way, she might've—"

Three small dark figures took cover in the shadows in the nook of a sconce, shrouded in darkness.

"What d'we do, Crabbe?" asked a small half-way-full peppershaker. Its small "P" was facing the stone wall, but facing the girl was a small, pudgy face, contorted in a expression of confusion.

"I dunno, Goyle," said an equally small saltshaker, which was also half-full and sported an "S" on the back of the glass container. It likewise had a face with just an equally pudgy, confused expression. "Neville!" It snapped rudely.

"Yes?" Asked an even smaller figure timidly. About the size of a teacup stood a terra-cotta pot filled to the rim with dry soil. Also in this pot was one small green stem, with two limber branches pressing into themselves like worrying hands. Two leaves graced one branch, and one leaf graced the other. This pot had a face, but unlike the two others' its expression was very anxious.

"Go tell somebody," Crabbe the saltshaker said.

"Yeah," Goyle joined in. "Like McGoogle or Snape or somebody important." The peppershaker hopped over closer to the ledge of the window to see that the girl was almost to the staircase, and didn't bother to prevent the soft clinking noises that came as its glass met stone.

"B-but—"

"Hurry up!" Goyle ground out. "That is, unless you want to be nothing but a bunch of clay pieces." The peppershaker shook its glass body menacingly.

"Yeah!" The saltshaker hopped up and down. "A bunch of clay pieces!"

With a small _eep_ of terror, the small brown pot quietly hopped over to the edge, trying not to let its clay body make too much noise against the stone. Extending its small green stems out, the pot twisted them around a nearby metal sconce and swung off the edge. Dangling for a second or two, the pot readjusted its grip and extended one green arm to the next sconce which was lower to the ground. As Neville repeated the process, the sconces went down in a diagonal line, leading Neville so close to the floor that he was only about six inches off the ground. With a small swing the pot let go of the sconce and landed on the floor with only the smallest of _clinks_, then hopped his way down the hallway.

* * *

Hermione finally reached the staircase. She had thought it was large from back at the entrance, but she now realized that it had clearly been an understatement. And _that room_—it must have been a ballroom. It was larger than the entrance hall, which she hadn't imagined possible! Whoever had owned the castle must have been very, very wealthy.

Looking back up the marble staircase, Hermione debated whether to go up or stay downstairs. A bedroom would be much more easily found above, she decided, longing for the reprieve of her bed at home. A force was pulling her up the stairs, but her consciousness was already dwindling. She was so very tired and didn't want to think about anything anymore…

* * *

"Madam McGonagall! Madam McGonagall!"

Neville hopped into the small little kitchen as quickly as he could and instantly began searching for the head of the servants.

"Madam McGonagall!" Neville cried out, clinking his way across the tiled floor of the kitchen. Only two small candles in the room were lit and the illumination they provided wasn't much. As Neville passed through the darkness, various personified items looked up as he went by, grimacing every time his voice broke through the silence. Plates, teacups, saucers and silverware warily opened an eye or two to watch him through the glass of their cabinets or from their corners. Some stoves against the wall cringed as Neville accidentally clunked himself against their edges, and the annoyed tap spurted out a few drops of water as it awoke from his frantic calls. A broomstick in the corner with very tan, sandy-colored twigs and a face hidden within them, sleepily opened one eye to look at Neville as he came closer.

"Neville," The broomstick said groggily. "Wha'ss all the fuss about?"

"Seamus!" Neville shrieked, causing the broomstick along with the others around them to wince. "Where's Madam McGonagall?"

"Wha—at?" Seamus yawned.

"It's really important!" Neville exclaimed. "Really, really important!"

"What could be _so_ important that you barge in like this, Longbottom?" asked an irritated plate from behind the cupboard's glass door.

"There's a _girl_ in the castle!" Neville smiled excitedly.

There was a loud round of gasps from each of the items.

"What? A girl?"

"No, it couldn't be!"

"Impossible!"

"But that's what he said—a girl!"

The excited murmurs flew around the kitchen. Soon every teacup, saucer, fork, knife, spoon and appliance was wide awake and discussing this incredible news. Neville stood there in the corner with Seamus as the others began to hop from their sleeping places and crowd around the two.

"Is it true, Neville?" Asked a young pot. "Is there really a girl in the castle?"

"Uh-huh," Neville nodded, while others gave him disbelieving looks. "I saw her with my own eyes!"

"Now isn't that… _convincing_, " a smooth voice drawled from a dark corner in the opposite side of the room by the stoves. Neville gave a little gasp.

"Sir S-snape!" Neville stuttered.

"We're not telling tall tales, now are we, Longbottom?" A large black cauldron with a face consisting of a large hooked-nose crept out of the dark corner and came into the small light from the candles. Neville slowly shook his head.

"No?" Snape asked. "Then what's this I hear about you spotting a girl in this castle?" The cauldron asked. "And more importantly, why are you not at your station on patrol?"

"I'm s-sorry, Sir. Y-you see—"

"Never mind, I do not want to hear your pitiful excuses. Return to your station and continue your shift; I will not have you giving the others false notions of another outsider's presence in the castle." Snape snapped.

"What's going on here?"

A large, black pointed hat appeared. The mouth was a rip near the brim and was currently pressed together tightly in a thin line, giving the face an overall stern appearance. The hat looked as if it had been interrupted from a nice sleep and was not at all thrilled.

"Madam McGonagall!" Neville cried, looking past Snape at the hat.

The hat looked at Neville for a second before turning to look at Snape. "What's the meaning of this, Severus?" she asked.

"Longbottom here seems to have let his imagination run away with his undersized brain. He seems to believe that there is a girl in the castle." Snape said as he turned and raised a dark brow.

"A girl?" She scoffed as her nostrils flared. "That couldn't be. No one ever dares to venture through the forest. The only one crazy enough is that old man… who we will hopefully never deal with again." McGonagall said as an afterthought with a sigh. "Longbottom, I am disappointed in you. You should know better than to raise everyone's hopes up about something so important as this."

"But Madam—" Neville started.

"Longbottom, please let me remind you of the last time you thought you saw something in the castle—what was it… a fox?" The hat paused, trying to remember. "The last time you 'cried wolf,' you sent the entire castle on alert for a mouse. Now listen to me," McGonagall released another sigh. "Everyone is to go back to their sleeping quarters immediately following my announcement," She raised her voice so everyone in the kitchen could hear her. "Longbottom, you will return to your patrol station and finish out your shift." McGonagall threw a glance at the terra-cotta pot as he attempted to protest. "Meanwhile, Sir Snape and I will quickly investigate, and search for any sign of humans." Snape's black pewter lip curled into a small sneer, McGonagall didn't pay him any mind. "Any questions?" No one replied. "Very well. Good _night_, everyone."

And with that, everyone headed back to their cupboards and counters or to their corners or cabinets, muttering amongst themselves. Seamus yawned widely, arching his suddenly very flexible wooden handle in a stretch and swished back over to his little corner and rested against the white wall. Neville, however, stayed behind.

"But madam—"

"_Good night_, Longbottom." Madam McGonagall said with such finality that Neville didn't dare persist. "I will see you in the morning for your garden duties at the usual time in the ballroom. Your shift should almost be over. I suggest you return to your post." The hat bounced a little closer to the pot. "Understood?" Neville sighed.

"Yes, madam," the pot said, defeated. Neville then clanked out of the kitchen, still trying to be quiet for the others' sakes, but not trying all that hard at all.

The hat cast a glance at the disgruntled cauldron, then looked around to make sure that all of the kitchen staff was settled in. Seeing that they were, Madam McGonagall faced Snape once more and bounced over to him, leading him into the corridor.

"We can talk in the ballroom," the hat said as she bounced over to a swinging door at the far end of the kitchen that had been used for the servants to deliver food. The cauldron followed with a scowl on its face. Snape pushed the door open without much difficulty and McGonagall followed him out, letting the door swing slightly in its frame behind them.

They entered the dark, empty grand ballroom. There was only one small candle lit on each of the four walls, a puny flame flickering on each stick of wax. Luckily, the moonlight filtered in through the large windows and through the glass doors to the terrace. McGonagall noticed with annoyance that it was still snowing and the stone railing and seats were covered in inches of snow. Before she could stop herself, she made a mental note to remember to have someone shovel the next day.

_Ah_, she thought with bitterness. _But what would be the point?_

"Minerva, tell me you're not seriously considering that we spend half the night searching for a figment of Longbottom's overactive imagination," Snape drawled. "It's not even our own patrol shifts."

"I had no intention of spending half the night searching for anything," she said. "I did however intend on making sure that the castle was in order and checking each station to see if they had seen _something_. You never know, it could have been that madman again…"

"Somehow," Snape drawled. "I don't think they will have seen anything. Our only witness _is_ Longbottom after all. Well, him and Crabbe and Goyle. But I trust I don't need to explain how impressive their credibility is."

"I know Longbottom isn't exactly the most… _reliable_ person in the castle, but I still think it would be better to be safe than sorry. A quick check throughout the castle couldn't do much harm." McGonagall stated, hopping along with Snape to the exit leading to the entrance hall.

"One less hour of sleep is enough harm for me," Snape complained. He was about to continue when something flew in from behind them. Snape and McGonagall turned around in unison to see an eagle owl swoop in from the veranda. Slightly covered in ice crystals, the owl gave a quick little shake in attempt to get rid of them. Unfortunately, he failed.

"Ah! Midas!" McGonagall exclaimed happily. "Back so soon?"

"Any sign of the lunatic?" Snape asked.

Midas gave a little squawk and shook his head.

"Thank goodness," McGonagall said. "I don't know how much more of him I can handle."

"He's already tried to break into the castle three times before. Who knows what he's capable of?" Snape said, scowling at the moon.

"These nightly patrol shifts are going on much too long. I can't wait until that man gives up," She sighed. Again.

Had anyone who was not a resident of the castle witnessed the scene playing out in the ballroom would not have been able to believe their eyes. An old hat, a pewter cauldron and eagle owl were having a conversation as if it were as normal as the sun rising each morning.

Midas hopped up and down, giving another couple of squawks. Suddenly, McGonagall's cheerful face turned serious and Snape's scowl grew shocked.

"_What_?" Snape whispered.

Midas flew up into the air and circled around for a bit, and then he quickly turned, squawking frantically and pointing to the ground with his wing as if he had spotted something. Midas instantly dropped to the marble floor and started galloping like a horse. He turned around and pointed to nothing behind him, then squawked once more.

"Is there really?" McGonagall asked. She seemed to be thinking deeply. Snape had serious matters on his mind as well. "A girl in the castle…" Her eyes widened in a mixture of delight and excitement. "This is what we've been waiting for!"

"What kind of girl would travel through the forest?" Snape asked skeptically, although you could see somewhere in his pewter eyes that he, too, was letting the marvel of the situation register.

"Oh, what does that matter?" McGonagall asked. "Ooh! Neville was _right_." Suddenly, her eyes showed fear. "Midas," she said. "Where is she now?"

Midas squawked and motioned towards the exit and the stairs. The hat looked as if it were going to be torn up. Literally.

"Quick, Midas!" She said suddenly, as the severity of it all digested in her mind. "Inform the others! Tell those on the third floor!" She exclaimed, quickly turning around and hopping over to a door left of the two entrances to the kitchen. The cauldron and owl had trouble keeping up with her; she was moving so fast that Midas even resorted to flying alongside Snape rather than running. "Then if you have time, come help Severus and I stop her; don't let her go any higher than the third floor! If she gets any higher we may not get to her first!" McGonagall shouted as she reached the door. Midas turned around in the air and flew to the exit and down the hallway in the direction of the main staircase. "I shudder to think what the master would do if he found her," McGonagall told Snape as she did, in fact, shudder. "You know how his temper gets." She pushed open the swinging door and hopped down a very small and dark hallway. The cauldron followed all the way.

"All too well," Snape responded grimly.

* * *

As Hermione walked along, Hermione tried to distract herself from sleep with the various fixtures of the corridors. The countless furnished cabinets lining the walls were from cherry trees and polished enough to look like a mirror, even in the dark. Every piece of silver was polished and gleaming in the moonlight that shone through the large windows.

She searched for something that resembled a bedroom; any type of room with a bed or couch, she wasn't too picky. Hermione would peak in open doors as she walked, but only ended up being disappointed as she found storage rooms and closets. _Perhaps I should have gone higher up_, she thought with a sigh as she continued along.

She turned the corner and came to another corridor with a stone railing on her left. If Hermione looked over the railing, she could see the ground floor again and the large staircase off in the distance. Then far across on the other side of the staircase was another corridor just like the one she was currently in, with another stone railing of its own. As she looked up she could see countless floors, all designed exactly like this one, opening wide into the space before the grand staircase, the heart of the castle. She wondered just how many floors there were... When she had been outside with the castle looming over her, it had looked huge, but now that she was inside, she couldn't help but wonder just how large the castle _really_ was.

There were no windows in this corridor and it was very dark; the majority of the light came from over the railing. Suddenly, she stopped walking and gasped in mid-yawn. Hermione's first thought was that there was an animal sitting on the railing, ready to attack. But as she looked closer, she realized that it was only a stone gargoyle sitting on the railing. In fact, Hermione noticed that there were many gargoyles, all sitting in the same position with the same fiendish grin splattered across their faces.

It was a while until Hermione came to another staircase. This one was much, much smaller compared to the main staircase. Also unlike the main staircase, this set of stairs had a line of sconces hung on the wall, none of them lit. Yawning twice as she went up, hoped with all hope that there would be a bed waiting for her at the top.

As Hermione reached the top, she realized something near the end of the hall was flickering light into the upcoming corridor.

* * *

Midas silently swooped out the ballroom and through the large open area containing the main staircase. Gliding along, he rose up to the second floor and sat next to one of the gargoyles on the railing. He skimmed the opposite side of the stairs for any sign of the girl, his golden orbs flickering in the moonlight. He hopped a little to left to get a better view of the third floor and squinted. Nothing.

As Midas was hopping back a little closer to the gargoyle, he heard movement from behind him on the stairs. Coming up the staircase was the girl Midas had seen in the forest, and she was walking towards him. As she passed by him, he was sure to swerve around the stone gargoyle, keeping out of sight. Wasting no time, he swooped from the railing and into the air, not stopping until he reached his destination. Gliding along the new corridor, Madam McGonagall's voice kept ringing in his head. _"Don't let her go any higher than the third floor!" _

There was a small room at the end of the corridor on the third floor where a few servants usually slept, endearingly called "The Common Room" by its regular occupants. Midas gave himself a little shake as he swooped down and reached its door. Giving the slightly ajar door a nudge with his feathery head, his eyes raked over the cozy, round room full of red squishy armchairs. The fire in the stone hearth had already almost died completely, and Midas had to search the room more closely for the two servants he was looking for.

Snoring softly on a throw pillow in one of the armchairs was a paintbrush. There was a small face hidden in the bristles of the sleeping utensil, but its closed eyes were barely visible in the dark brush. He rushed to the armchair where the paintbrush was sleeping, the subsequent breeze of air disturbing the glowing embers in the fireplace. Suddenly, a lone white candle sitting on the hearth stirred, and a flame came alight at its wick. A face materialized as the wax shifted, and two brows appeared as they furrowed together. Underneath, a hole in the wax opened wide with a sleepy yawn. Blaise's eyes opened groggily and glared in the direction of the bird who had disturbed his lovely dream.

He had been snogging that feather duster who slept in the fifth floor storage room.

Giving another large yawn, he glanced at a gold clock hanging on the wall. He looked at Midas—who was now nudging the pillow where Dean was trying to sleep—then looked back at the clock.

"Midas," Blaise said, fighting back yet another violent yawn. "It's not our night to patrol. Let the poor artist sleep."

Midas quickly turned around, causing Blaise to jump with such strength that his flame almost went out. The next thing Blaise knew, Midas was right up in front of his wax nose, jumping around and making bizarre gestures with his feathery wings, squawking every once and awhile for good measure.

Blaise followed Midas with his eyes, trying to decipher whatever message Midas seemed to be trying to give him. Finally after thirty more seconds of insane wing gesticulations, Midas stopped and let his wings drop back to his sides. He stood there in front of him, looking at him expectantly for an answer. Blaise just stared dumbly. Three years he had spent with the owl as a candle, and he never once had this much difficulty trying to translate Midas's gestures.

"Erm," Blaise said. "Could you… repeat that?"

Midas looked at the candle unbelievingly. Instead of repeating the message again like Blaise requested, Midas quickly hopped back over to the armchair where Dean was still snoring. Midas started nudging the red throw pillow again, attempting to wake Dean up, but failed horribly. Blaise sighed.

He hopped his way over to the end of the side table and jumped to his neighboring armchair. He hopped across the cushions until he reached the opposite arm. Using his fortunate amount of momentum, he vaulted off the arm for the armchair where Dean was still sleeping soundly. He landed very nicely on a gold throw pillow near Dean and hopped his way over to the paintbrush.

"Oi," Blaise said. He bent over, his wax body suddenly very flexible, and moved his mouth close to where Dean's ears would be… if he had any. "Wake up and figure out what this bird's trying to tell me," Blaise said to the paintbrush. Dean slept on as if nothing had happened. Blaise and Midas shared eye contact for a second before Blaise turned back. "Dean," he tried again, impatience growing. "Dean Thomas… Oh, for the love of—WAKE UP, YOU BLOODY ARTIST."

Dean was up instantly. He gave a startled cry and made a move as if he was going to bolt for the door, but Blaise and Midas quickly stopped him. Midas threw a quick glance at the door to see if the girl was coming down the hallway. She hadn't reached the third floor yet, but he knew that she'd be here very soon.

"Bloody hell, Blaise," Dean said, noticing that is was in fact Midas and Blaise who had woken him up and were now towering over him. "You didn't have to scream in my ear." Blaise was about to comment, but wasn't given the chance. "What'd you wake me up for, anyway?" He asked. "We don't have patrol duty tonight."

"I know," Blaise said, giving Midas an annoyed glance. Midas merely shrugged. "Ask the bird, he woke me up, too." Dean looked questioningly at Midas, who was glaring at Blaise for calling him_ the bird_.

Midas instantly restarted his odd-wing-gesture message. Blaise sat on his gold throw pillow, staring at Midas dumbly… again. Midas's wings were moving so fast he couldn't make out anything the owl was trying to tell them. Midas' message finally ended and his wings dropped to his sides like two very heavy bricks. His shoulders drooped down a little and he looked exhausted. Blaise was debating if he should dare try asking Midas to repeat it again when Dean spoke.

"No," he said, his dark eyes wide. "Is there? Really?" He shook his head. "Can't be." His voice filled with incredulity.

Blaise was too preoccupied with trying to figure out how Dean understood anything from Midas' wild wing gestures rather than trying to figure out what couldn't be.

"I mean," Dean went on. "That's _impossible_… " Midas shook his head. Blaise looked back and forth between the two. He finally focused on what Dean was saying.

"What is?" Blaise asked.

"Didn't you get what Midas just told us?" Dean looked at Blaise but didn't give him a chance to answer because he turned back to face Midas. He didn't see the indignant look on the candle's face either. "In the castle—there's-there's a—a… _Blimey._"

"A _what_?" Blaise said impatiently. He didn't like it when he didn't know things that other people knew. It happened a lot.

"There's a _girl_," Dean said. "A _girl_ is in the castle." Dean's eyes suddenly filled with excitement. "She hasn't seen anyone from the castle yet—well, except for Midas, but none of us!" Dean began to speak very quickly. "She's from the other side of the forest! Midas lured her here with the help of her horse—Midas says he's a real nice guy—anyway, she's come to break the spell—"

"Dean!" Blaise said.

"Only she doesn't know that yet—Madam McGonagall's going to have her live in the castle!" Dean continued. "She's going to spend her time here in one of the old guest rooms and turn us all back to normal!"

"Dean! Slow down!" Blaise was feeling dizzy. Did Dean say there was a _girl _in the castle? Dean stopped talking and looked at the confused candle. "Did you just say," Blaise started. "That there's a girl in the castle?" Dean nodded vigorously. Blaise looked at him as if he was insane. "A girl. In _this _castle." Blaise echoed slowly. Dean nodded again. Blaise gradually turned his gaze to the floor. His eyes widened, the statement had finally dawned on him.

"There's a girl in the castle!" Blaise said excitedly and whooped with joy. "I'll be human again!" The candlestick began jumping around and bouncing up and down on throw pillows, almost setting them on fire. "Oh, what I'd give to be mortal again! I swear, the first thing I'll do when I'm human is find that feather duster from the fifth floor storage room, Britney—"

"Bridgett?" Dean cocked an eyebrow.

"Whatever." Blaise continued. "Her, yeah. Bridgett. And then I'll—"

Midas made a large squawk. Blaise looked slightly upset for being interrupted—Dean looked thankful—but had no time to mope, for Midas began telling them that the girl was coming this way, and that he didn't know how she'd take seeing a talking candlestick and paintbrush. He warned them to be cautious when she finally saw them; they didn't want to scare her away. The two sat like statues as Midas told them, staring at the owl intently. When Midas finished, he felt like flopping down and going to sleep. Luckily, he managed to hold himself up.

"There's a girl in the castle." Dean repeated quietly. Blaise nodded.

"There's a girl." Blaise repeated.

"In the castle."

They were in awe.

"Wait a second," Blaise said, his forehead scrunching up together. "McGoogle's going to let her stay in the castle?" He raised a brow and turned to Midas. "Does… _he_ know about it yet?" Blaise didn't sound very excited anymore. Dean caught on and his excitement died down as well. Midas shook his head slowly.

"But," Dean said. "If he doesn't know, then—"

"We're going to be in so much trouble," Blaise interrupted, hanging his head. Dean nodded his head gravely in agreement.

Midas nervously glanced back out in the hallway and his bottom beak fell open. The girl was almost half way down the hall. His eyes widened and he suddenly turned towards Blaise and Dean and started quietly giving them instructions.

* * *

Hermione continued to walk along the corridor of the third floor, squinting hard to see what had been at the end of the hallway. There was a fire burning in that room, she knew that much from the constant flickering of light through the crack of the open door. But who on earth would light a fire in an abandoned castle like this?

_Criminals. _

Hermione pushed the idea back out of her mind. She thought it'd be better if she didn't give herself anything else to worry about. If there were criminals, then… well, she'd be done for. But Hermione decided she didn't really want to think about that.

She reached the door. Seeing that it was open just a crack, she peered in. When she didn't see anyone or any movement of any kind, she gently pushed the door open wider. It was an ordinary room filled with armchairs and couches. The only thing peculiar about the room was the fact that there was a dying fire burning freely in the hearth. Well, that and the two items on a side table near an armchair. Hermione walked over to the table to get a better look at them.

There was a clean paintbrush and a white candle in a green holder. Her brows furrowed together in thought as she reached for the paintbrush. Picking it up, she took another look around the room. She turned the paintbrush over in her fingers for a little bit before gently setting it back down on the table. She picked up the candleholder and brought it up to her eyes. She looked at the fancy designs on the holder before setting it back down on the table and walking to the fireplace.

The mantle was bare, but oddly enough, not covered in even the thinnest layer of dust. Hermione wiped her finger across the wood and rubbed it together her with her thumb. No dust at all.

"We like to keep things tidy," a voice said.

Hermione jumped and gave a small cry of surprise, her hand instinctively placing itself over her chest to calm her heart, which was now bouncing around in her ribcage. She turned around expecting to see a man standing in the doorway.

Instead, she found the eagle owl she had seen earlier that night. He was sitting on the top of the armchair near the side table with the two interesting objects. Hermione looked around the room.

"Where did—" Hermione cut off, glancing at the bird. "Who—_where_ did you come from?" Hermione finally managed to say. She looked around the room again. There were no windows, so the only entrance to the room was the door. "Who said that?" Hermione was so surprised to see the bird again that she almost forgot someone had just spoken to her.

"I did," the voice said again, cheerfully.

Hermione looked around but saw no one. She moved a little to the side to look out through the wide-open door but saw that there wasn't anyone in the corridor. "Not there," said the voice, amused. "Not there either. Down here." Hermione looked at the spot where the voice was coming from. She raised a brow questioningly as she looked at the side table. Giving the bird a quick, frustrated glance at the top of his armchair, Hermione bent down a little to see the items better.

"Er," Hermione started. "Hello?" _Well, this is stupid, _she thought. _First I'm talking to an owl, now I'm on to inanimate objects. _Hermione was about to go back to the idea that this was all a very bad dream and she'd wake up, nice and cozy in her own bed in just a few more seconds when the voice spoke again.

"Hello!" It chirped.

Midas slapped a wing to his forehead in a very annoyed manner, but Hermione didn't see.

She stumbled backwards with a strangled noise. It was if her throat tried to gasp and scream at the same time, but couldn't make up its mind, resulting in a very odd noise that resembled something being smacked very hard in the face.

A face had popped up in the candle. With two eyes, a nose and a mouth resembling that of any human face, the candle had spoken clearly and happily to her as if there was nothing unusual about this situation. At first Hermione couldn't speak, she just stood there staring at the candle unbelievingly. The candle wore a large smile and was staring at her, evidently finding nothing wrong with his ability to communicate.

"How—" Hermione was trying to say something, but found herself with nothing. "You can—but—you _can't_—" Hermione kept spitting out words, but hadn't managed to form a sentence yet. "You're a—a candle! But you can—" Hermione slapped her hand to her forehead. "I'm going crazy," she concluded, closing her eyes.

"No, you're not," said another voice. Hermione's eyes popped open in time to see a face appear in the bristles of the paintbrush. "I can talk, too!" The brush said happily. Hermione's eyes widened and Midas gaped at the two with his beak wide open in shock.

"Ohh," Hermione groaned. "I'm _already _insane," she whispered to herself.

The eagle owl fluttered his wings a little as he plopped down onto the arm of the chair and nodded his head towards the two objects. Hermione looked at the owl, then at the paintbrush and finally the candlestick. She slowly backed away and plopped down when she felt the bottom of a couch touch her heels. She sat there with her hands limp in her lap, staring at the three.

"This can't be happening," Hermione said out loud. "You're an owl! You're a paintbrush! And you're a candlestick!" She pointed at each of them. "You can't talk!"

"But we can!" said the candlestick, still smiling at her bemusedly. Hermione continued to stare at the objects. This time when she tried to speak, she didn't have much difficulty.

"But _why_? _How_? You're definitely not supposed to!" Hermione was feeling dizzy now. She put her head in her hands and tried to soothe away an oncoming headache. _Too tired, too tired, too tired…_

"It's a long story," the candlestick told her, hopping off the table onto the cushioned chair and onto the red carpet. "But we can explain that later." The paintbrush and owl followed the candlestick to the couch. "Oh!" he exclaimed. "I'm terribly sorry," and he bowed so low that Hermione was afraid he might set the carpet on fire. "We haven't been properly introduced." Still bowing, he continued, all the while giving her a very charming smile. "Blaise Zabini at your service. This here is my good friend—"

"Dean Thomas," Dean interrupted, bowing as well. Blaise gave him an annoyed look that went unnoticed. "Your very own art expert." Dean looked at the owl.

Midas hooted happily and bowed, just as low as Dean and Blaise. Blaise was finally allowed another chance to speak.

"The owl next to him—whom you've already met—is Midas." Blaise finally stood up and ended his bow. "And just who might you be, miss?"

Hermione looked up and stared at them. She still found the idea of all this being a dream _very _appealing, but answered their question nonetheless.

"I'm Hermione," she replied. "Er, Hermione Granger, that is." She scratched her forehead absentmindedly.

"Well, Miss Hermione Granger," Blaise said. "It's a pleasure to have you here. I do believe you're very tired and all this excitement is only adding to your fatigue." He hopped a little closer to the couch where Hermione was sitting. "Dean and I will escort you to your room." He started hopping toward the door, but Hermione didn't move from the couch.

"Oh, why… thank you?" Hermione said quietly, deciding that she'd just give in. She didn't exactly believe that following three inanimate objects around an old castle was an excellent idea, but she didn't have too much of a choice. And this had to be a dream after all. Right?

She was less picky with her options as she steadily grew more tired. She knew it was long past midnight and dawn would arrive quickly. Hermione came in the castle looking for a place to sleep, so why shouldn't she accept the offer of a nice warm room to sleep in… "Wait," Hermione paused. "My room? Surely you mean as in for tonight, only…" She looked at the three warily.

"Er," Blaise and Dean looked at each other. "Well…"

Hermione was about to ask him what he meant when she heard something in the corridor.

* * *

"Where could he be?" Madam McGonagall said as she hopped up another few steps, taking two at a time when she could.

"I haven't the slightest idea," Snape replied. "Normally I'd assume that he'd be off brooding in his chambers at this time of night, but I don't suppose he'd be there now, considering… what tonight is…"

The two had walked down a small, dark hallway for only a minute or so before they came to a wooden staircase that was just as wide as the hallway.

"Maybe Miss Parkinson would know where he is," McGonagall thought out loud.

"We don't have enough time to get to her," Snape said. "Besides, I doubt she would tell us."

"True," McGonagall said, hopping up another step. "Finally…" She hopped off the last step onto a long landing, which led to another wooden door.

"Minerva," Snape said as he hopped up onto the landing and went toward her. "Just what are you planning to tell him when we find him?" Madam McGonagall pursed her lips in a thoughtful way.

"I really don't know, Severus," She replied, opening the door. "I guess we'll just have to tell him the truth. I can't even fathom hiding something as important as this. I suppose afterwards we'll just have to give him a chance to calm himself and hope that he doesn't do anything rash." She didn't seem satisfied with her answer, but before she could give any further response, Snape replied.

"The truth?" Snape asked, raising a brow questioningly. "We just let a stranger practically waltz right into the castle and we have no intention of sending her home," he said. "Do you honestly think he'll be _calm_?" He asked as he followed McGonagall into anther, much smaller hallway. "He _hates_ visitors."

"I know." McGonagall sighed as she reached the end of the hallway. There was a frame for a door, but no door actually resided there. It led to a room that was filled with broomsticks, mops, feather dusters and many more cleaning utensils that were all sound asleep. Some were even snoring softly. "I know," McGonagall whispered again, careful not to wake the others. "But I'm sure he won't be so quick to turn her away as soon as he just _thinks_ about the possibilities… and surely _you _can knock some sense into him."

"_I_, Minerva?" Snape asked, almost forgetting to whisper. "What on earth makes you believe he'd listen to me?" Madam McGonagall gave him a dry look.

"You're the _only_ one he'll listen to," she answered impatiently. McGonagall hopped over to another sliding door and pushed it open. "Now," she said looking left and right. "Where could he be?"

They were in another corridor. One that almost resembled the corridors Hermione was walking down at that very moment. The stone floors had a red velvet rug running down the center, sconces were hanging on the walls and wooden furniture was sitting against the wall. There were even a couple of suits of armor on each side of the hallway. Snape deliberated.

"This way," Snape told McGonagall as he went left. McGonagall followed.

"What are you thinking Severus?" McGonagall asked. "I thought you said that he wouldn't be in his chambers tonight, that he'd be off in some other part of the castle—"

"I did." Snape interrupted as he hopped further down the corridor. "We aren't going to his rooms." His tone was almost impatient.

"Where are we going, then?" She asked.

"To the Astronomy Tower," he replied, not bothering to turn around.

_The Astronomy Tower?_

They reached the end of the corridor and came to a small set of stairs. Reaching the top, they continued to hop down the corridor and turned right when it that came to an end. They continued to go down numerous corridors, coming to a staircase or cutting through a special room every so often. They had traveled up at least five floors before they spoke again.

"Minerva," Snape whispered glancing about the hallway. It was eerily quiet in the corridor; the only noise being the soft clinks of the cauldron hopping along the stone tiles and the muffled swishing sound of the hat sweeping across the floor. The hallway was very plain; carpets were absent from the corridor's floors and no furnishings or decorations of any sort sat in the hall. Just the usual line of sconces on the walls, very few of which were lit. However, whatever the corridor lacked in detail elaborateness, it certainly made up for in its height. The stone walls towered over the two figures, not nearly as high as the ceiling of the grand ballroom but still very high. To the left were windows, all of which were just as large. It was dark outside, but the full moon's rays showered down on everything below and filtered in through these windows, causing the figures' shadows to mirror their movements on the wall to their left. Outside the snow glittered in the bluish light, whether it was covering the numerous tree branches, the clearing around the castle, the castle itself or the very sky as the snowflakes drifted closer and closer to the earth.

Madam McGonagall was so absorbed in her thoughts of the night's events and her plans for the future that she didn't hear Snape until he was directly in front of her, causing them to almost collide. Her eyes snapped up just in time to see him and she instantly stopped.

"Oh," McGonagall said, feeling a headache starting. "Sorry, Severus. You were saying?" Snape hadn't really been saying anything, just calling her a name a few times, but he still gave her a very stern look. If it had been anyone but Madam McGonagall…

"I was _saying_," Snape said, trying not to sound too impatient with the headmistress. "I just hope you realize that this may not go very well." He hopped to the left and began walking side-by-side with McGonagall again. "For all we know, he could very well have lost all hope completely a long time ago. He may not even have enough sense to give this a try. In fact, if he's already given up entirely, then who's to say he won't just kill the girl the first time he lays eyes on her? Think of the punishment we'd receive for letting someone into the castle." McGonagall shook her head slightly.

"I realize that, I do. And knowing him, I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he _has_ given up all hope." McGonagall said.

"How encouraging," Snape scowled.

"You didn't let me finish." McGonagall said, purposely ignoring his sarcasm. "I'm not about to let our chance to become human again be lost forever because our master is too incapable of controlling his emotions," she said determinedly as the pace of her walk found a new briskness. "Besides, he wouldn't really hurt anyone, no matter how much he's threatened… even I can see that…" McGonagall's tone suddenly grew somber and quiet.

Snape knew she was right. It had been disturbing to see the reactions of his master to everything he'd done during his first night as a werewolf. Snape himself had a hard enough time helping to clean up the corpses and blood strewn all over the castle, but he can't even begin to fathom what it must have been like for _him_. The stench of the dead had been unbearable; if Snape found difficulty in walking these halls, what kind of torture had the Prince endured with his heightened senses? Everywhere he'd walked, Snape had found servants and royal subjects mutilated, some barely even recognizable. The guilt weighing down over the prince must have been unbearable.

The Prince had confined himself to his chambers again, and this time no one tried to make him emerge. When it came time to try to encourage him come out once more, weeks after, Snape was the only one that seemed to have any success. The Prince would yell at the servants who brought him food to go away, that he wished for everyone to leave him alone. When Snape came to give the Prince his food, he hadn't spoken at all…

_Snape knocked twice on the large wooden doors, trying not to drop the silver tray balancing on top of him. He was so frustrated recently, not being able to do things normally. It was very hard to do anything anymore; his actions being limited by his new form, as they were… he no longer had the use of hands after all. Master Snape sat outside the two doors, scowling silently as he waited for a response._

_Nothing._

_Snape gave an impatient sigh and knocked again. Still nothing. He hadn't really expected any sort of reply from the Prince, but he was still very irritated, seeing as he would definitely have to open the door on his own, all the while balancing a very heavy tray on top of what he'd like to think was his head. The other servants would just leave the master's meal outside the door so the Prince could take it when he couldn't hear anyone out in the hall, but Snape had had enough. It was time for the Prince to start venturing out into the other parts of the castle again. Not because he was supposed to rule… There wasn't much left to rule, of course. But for his own sanity._

_After much effort and a lot of quiet grunting, Master Snape managed to open the door enough to slide inside._

_At first he was confused. He almost thought that he'd gone to the wrong room, which was to say, ridiculous. He thought he'd stumbled upon one of those deserted storage rooms that were no longer used. _

_The room was extremely dark, despite the fact that it was around noon. The curtains were closed tightly, and not even the smallest ray of sunlight made it inside the room. The Prince's four-poster bed was now a three-post nest of ripped blankets and pillows. The floors were littered with feathers from the torn pillows and tattered cloth. In one area the ground was covered with shards of glass from one of the many antique trinkets that had been sitting somewhere on his many shelves. Books were scattered about the room as if they had been ripped out of their places in a mad rage and hurled in every direction. Pages were crudely severed from the bindings and laid about the room in shredded pieces. All furniture in sight had been damaged somehow. Oddly enough, Snape's master wasn't in sight._

_Sir Snape carefully slid forward a little, just enough to be out of the way of the door when it opened and slowly and cautiously set down the tray only spilling a little of the milk. _

_After almost successfully setting down the meal, Snape continued to look around the massacred room. More books scattered about the room, shredded pages a thin blanket across the floor. Sheets thrown up over the windows and were pinned up at the entrance the balcony to help keep out the light; garments and more torn cloth strewn all about. These things gave Snape a terrible feeling of sadness, a feeling that he couldn't seem to describe. But there was one damaged item in particular that troubled him._

_There on the wall, lopsided and barely hanging on its nail, was the mangled portrait of the Prince._

_But it didn't look much like him anymore._

_It had been done just before the King and Queen mysteriously fell ill, when the kingdom was still a happy place. A knot began twisting violently in the pit of Snape's stomach, but he instantly fought down the feeling. This was no time to mourn what had been, especially not for Snape. He was never one to dwell on the past. _

_The best painter in the kingdom, which had in fact been the royal family's personal painter, was hired to do the task. Snape remembered seeing the final product and thinking that Dean had indeed done a very good job. He bitterly remembered how his master complained about having to sit still for so long. You would have thought, being as vain as he was, that he would've loved the process of having his own personal portrait being made, but alas, he complained and complained and _complained_. The Prince never really sat well with boredom._

_Now that poor painter's hard work was thrown away. Slash marks from his very own claws were made down the center of the Prince's face and then three more slashes in a half-hazard pattern that Snape couldn't decipher. The part of the canvas where his face was painted, being ripped and torn, fell limply toward the ground. Only his chin was left visible; the rest of the face was practically hanging on the wall by threads._

_Snape stared at the portrait with some sort of grim fascination. He wanted to look away, but he just couldn't bring himself to avert his gaze._

_He could've sat there all day and just looked at it, but soon his common sense returned and he realized he would be needed in the kitchen soon. Feeling slightly disgusted with himself for getting so absorbed in his old memories, Snape headed for the door._

_But as he was turning for the doors he saw something out of his peripheral vision. His master._

_The Prince hadn't moved; Snape had only just noticed his presence. He was near the entrance to his balcony, sitting on the floor with his forearms resting on his knees. He was in the same tattered clothing that he had been wearing the night it happened, and Snape noticed with a feeling of disgust that there were still some bloodstains on the cloth. The Prince was staring off into space to his right, looking at something without actually seeing it._

_Sir Snape, nor any other servant for that matter, had really seen the Prince since he transformed. And Snape couldn't exactly say that they had gotten a good look at him, running for their lives and all._ _But his master didn't look like some ferocious, bloodthirsty monster now. He was not some vicious, carnivorous beast that would slaughter them all without the slightest hesitation. He was a sad, lonely boy grieving for his beloved parents and the many people who he had unknowingly murdered._

_Snape didn't try to resist the painful knot in his stomach this time. The Prince was not only his master, his lord. He was family._

_But he knew that trying to console the Prince was futile. If anything, it'd only make matters worse. So instead, Snape simply informed the Prince that his meal was on the floor and that if he needed anything else, he'd be in the kitchen. Snape didn't receive a reply, though he hadn't expected one. The Prince didn't even acknowledge the fact that he was there. Snape bowed slightly then made his way to the door, the Prince still silently staring off into space, never uttering a sound… _

The servants had been buried and the endless blood was scrubbed away from every nook and cranny known in the castle. Lord Riddle's body had been disposed of first, understandably. Snape had never honestly trusted Lord Riddle much, but he never thought anything like this would come from him. His body and belongings were burnt to cinders. Not even the smallest traces of bones were visible. The ashes were then scattered miles away in a place the Prince would never have reason to visit. The castle was stripped of anything having to do with Lord Riddle, and his bedchamber on one of the lower levels near the dungeons was locked and blocked off completely. It was as if Tom Riddle had never existed.

Two weeks after That Night, the castle looked as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. Save its inhabitants.

The servants continued their work as if nothing had happened, desperately trying to adjust to their new bodies. No one ever spoke directly of That Night again. In an unspoken agreement between all who lived in the castle, it was decided that to speak of That Night was forbidden. Riddle's name would never be uttered again.

It took weeks for the Prince to emerge, and it took even longer for parts of his old self to resurface. The temper returned. The self-absorption. The sarcastic witticisms. But where was the warmth that Snape remembered? The young, snarky, carefree troublemaker that used to sneak visits to him in the kitchen to slip out a spare biscuit when he thought he wasn't looking? The thoughtful son who only wanted to please his parents? Where had that boy gone?

He died that night, Snape knew. Died with Tom Riddle, with his countless subjects, and with his hope.

With a small sigh, Master Snape came back to the present, leaving his memories in the far corners of his mind. He glanced to the left and watched the snowfall as he walked. "We should move faster," he said, hopping along the stone a little quicker. "Who knows how much time has passed since we left the ballroom." McGonagall moved along just as fast.

"What makes you think he'll be in the tower?" She asked him. She had been wondering for a while now.

"It's just a hunch," Snape answered vaguely, staring in front of him.

"For the girl's sake, I hope you're right," she hopped along faster. _He could very well be downstairs actually racing to wherever she is right now_. She tried to clear the image from her mind.

"I hope so, too." Snape said inaudibly as they reached the staircase that would lead them to the highest tower.

* * *

It was dark.

But that was preferable. He belonged there.

He sat on the railing of the outer balcony, leaning his back against the ancient bricks of the castle wall. He didn't move to brush off the thin layer of snow covering him or the snowflakes that drifted down lazily to sit on his head and shoulders. He sat there on the ledge, staring off at the endless expanse of large trees. Sighing slightly, he let his head fall back against the wall and closed his eyes, not bothering to flinch as the snow fell on his closed eyelids or shiver when a slight breeze ruffled his black cloak. He barely felt them.

Opening his eyes, he tilted his head up and looked at the sky. There, staring back at him was the face of the man, which appeared every month when it was hideously full. How ironic, he decided, that the universe would send him a full moon on such a night. He glared at the countless dots of light above him, cursing each and every one of them silently. For what? He didn't know. They were alongside the moon—that was reason enough. But he grew distracted by snow-covered branches of the trees, and he watched as they glittered in the moonlight and as they swayed in the slight breeze.

For hours he had been up here, staring at everything and nothing at the same time, oblivious to everything else that was happening around him. He'd ignored those that were foolish enough to come up to his chambers to speak with him, and so he'd eventually sought refuge in the tower. The trees and the moon were his only company.

But someone was coming now, he realized with irritation. His ears perked up at the swishing sound that could only belong to McGonagall and the sound of pewter colliding with stone that he knew far too well. Scoffing and staring at the trees again, he ignored their presence. They, of all people, should know better than to try to disturb him. They'd give up soon enough and he'd go back to staring at the trees in precious silence.

He heard them come up the staircase leading to the astronomy tower, and their quiet whispering to each other, though he didn't bother to decipher what was being said. _No matter, _he thought. _They'll be gone soon enough. _

They reached the top of the stairs and entered the large room. He could hear them walking toward the balcony where he sat, making sure not to knock over any of the rusting telescopes or instruments on their way.

He hadn't bothered to close the glass door when he came out, meaning the snow had probably filtered its way into the building along with the wind and cold. _Oh well. Let the castle get cold_.

"Master?" McGonagall said as she stepped out onto the snow-covered balcony. There was fear in her voice, as much as she tried to hide it.

He ignored her.

"Master," she tried again. "I think we have some information that you might want to know about." She hopped out onto the stone balcony, Snape right behind her. McGonagall had fought down her apprehension and now her voice was full of determination. He could tell that Snape just had the usual slight scowl on his face as he continued to stare at the trees. He heard him give a sigh, barely audible to his own ears.

"Master Draco," Snape said, trying his very best not to let his impatience show. "It seems we have a visitor."

"If it's that old man again, I don't care," Draco replied, not taking his eyes off a particular tree branch to the left. "Do whatever you need to, just keep him out of the castle and get him out of my hair." He waved his right paw in a dismissive kind of way in what he hoped was their direction. "Go. Leave me alone."

"Master Draco," Snape said, trying harder than ever to be patient. The last thing he wanted to do was thoroughly irritate his master before adding fuel to the proverbial fire. "Have you sensed any unfamiliar presence around the castle recently?" Snape moved a little closer to the ledge. Draco heaved a dramatic sigh.

"No," He said curtly. "I haven't."

"You haven't smelt any unfamiliar scent about the castle, then?" McGonagall also hopped closer.

"No."

"Nothing out of the ordinary?" Snape added. Draco turned his head to look at the two of them. They were eyeing him expectantly.

"What are you two up to?" Draco's bushy eyebrows furrowed together suspiciously. "What are you talking about—an unfamiliar presence?" He scoffed. "Like you two would let anything really get in the castle." He sighed again and slumped back against the brick, ignoring the sharp jab of pain he felt in his lower back from the impact. He turned his gaze to the stars and McGonagall and Snape shared a look of mutual uneasiness.

"Master Draco," Snape continued after receiving a meaningful glance from McGonagall. "Midas discovered someone in the forest tonight—"

"Get rid of them," he said instantly, not turning his gaze away from the trees.

"We think you might be interested in them," McGonagall told him.

"I'm not." Draco replied indifferently. "Send them away and leave me alone. I don't want to hear of anyone from the other side of this forest, understood?" He didn't wait for a reply. "Now leave me."

"Master Draco," Snape gritted out. In one giant leap, he was now on top of the ledge in front of the Prince, who watched him in slight surprise. Under different circumstances Snape might have been more yielding toward Draco's brooding and sulking, but not tonight. Tonight someone who had the ability to change _everything_ stepped right into their castle, and he was _not_ going to let Draco ruin it. "I suggest, my Lord, that you listen to what we have to say." McGonagall stepped closer to the ledge, looking very bold.

Draco eyed them warily. "What are you two going on about?"

"Master Draco," Snape said slowly. "We think you might be interested in _her_."

The Prince didn't respond, and McGonagall used the moment to her advantage. "Someone stumbled upon the castle tonight." McGonagall said. "Midas discovered a young woman near the opposite end of the forest this evening and lured her here with the help of her horse." She tried to speak calmly and seriously, but it was impossible not to notice the slight tinge of excitement in her voice, the excitement that was overpowering her apprehension.

"She's here in the castle at this very moment," Snape informed him, waiting for a reaction. Draco was staring at him, but didn't seem to actually see him. "This is our only chance!" He blurted out. "She's the only girl that's been even remotely near the castle in years!" Snape went on. "If she isn't the one to break the spell, then we're destined for an eternity as cooking appliances and cleaning utensils and you as what you are!" McGonagall eyed him cautiously, but trusted his judgment.

"Master Draco," her tone was almost pleading. "She's our last hope. This girl—she can break the spell! She's _the one!_"

They waited for his response.

"Master?" Snape asked, wariness just barely noticeable.

Draco turned toward them and swung his legs over the stone ledge, resting his paws on the railing. He stared at them all the while. Finally, as Snape was about to say his name again, he spoke. Cocking his head to the side and closing his eyes, his voice sounded strained and disbelieving.

" A _stranger_ in the castle?" he said, his eyes still closed. Snape and McGonagall shared a quick nervous glance.

"Yes, my Lord, but—" McGonagall started.

"Weren't my direct orders to let _no one _in this castle?" His voice sounded more strained than ever, as if it was taking everything he had to keep his voice at one volume. "They're not welcome. Send them away. _Now_." Draco sneered. As a normal human this expression had been bad enough, but with the addition of his werewolf appearance, the result could terrify grown men into running for their lives.

Snape however, was no grown man. Currently, he was a pewter cauldron. And this cauldron had had enough of his master's painful tenacity, and was _ready to be human again_, damn it all. But they couldn't just force him to take in the young woman. No, that wouldn't work. He'd probably scare her off and that would just as bad as not trying at all. They had to handle this slowly and carefully. Delicately. Diplomatically.

Snape thought carefully for a few seconds. They had to do the planning, the strategy, but make it seem to him like he was really calling the shots. He'd be making the decisions, but it would be Madam McGonagall and he who would be pushing him in all the right directions. But how to make it appear this way?

"My Lord," Snape started, not bothering as much to hide the plea in his tone. His chance at being human again was at stake. "Surely you realize you have nothing to lose from letting her stay in the castle?"

"My peace of mind," Draco answered sourly, giving Snape a glare of annoyance. It was a look Snape didn't often receive himself, but Snape did not notice; his patience was almost at its limit. If this had been anyone other than Draco…

McGonagall let out a small cry of frustration. Apparently, she was _well_ past her breaking point. Her fabric face scrunched up into the scariest, fiercest glare Snape had ever seen, which was to say… very scary.

"You are positively _impossible_! I'm going to check on her and the others," she announced defiantly to the Prince, who couldn't manage to completely hide the shock he felt. There had been few occasions where any servants questioned him, let alone challenged him. "You knock some sense in to him," she said exasperatedly to Snape, her face contorted with rage. "For all of our sakes!" And with that, she swiftly turned toward the door, striding back into the castle tall and resolute. Draco, who seemed to have lost his composure for the past few moments, suddenly found his voice.

"_You_—how dare—come back here McGonagall!" Draco bellowed, but she didn't stop. After hearing the Prince's call, the hat stood up straighter. Snape was sure that if McGonagall had been human then, she would have left the room with her nose in the air. Draco rounded on Snape. "Just who does she think she is?" He spat angrily. "Talking to me like that—what respect!" He scowled as he returned his gaze to the chef, who was returning his glare in full force. The two had a full-fledged staring contest going for at least a minute before Snape broke the silence.

"The girl," Snape said simply.

"What about her?" Draco said, his eyes narrowing.

Snape fought down the urge to bang him over the head with one of the telescopes sitting on the balcony. "I had assumed I need not remind you of the curse placed over all of our heads." Snape said, barely aware of just how venomous his voice sounded. In all honesty, he was getting dangerously close to stepping over some boundaries. But of course, desperate times call for desperate measures. "But I think now that a reminder is necessary, seeing as you _clearly_ can't seem to put two and two together to find that a solution to that very curse is right in front of you, waiting for you in your very own castle!" Draco's eyes narrowed further, more dangerously, but Snape didn't seem to notice. "Don't tell me that the possibility hasn't even crossed your mind at least once," his voice softened somewhat, and Draco turned to the trees. "Especially now—now that there's a young woman here. Have you even thought of actually _trying_ to break the spell?"

"Of course I've thought about it!" Draco growled out suddenly. "I think about it everyday! I can't get it out of my head!" His blue eyes turned toward Snape maliciously. "Of _course_ I've thought about the possibility! Of course the thought has occurred to me—the thought's haunted me ever since I became this—this—this _monster_! I'm not an idiot, Snape." Draco glowered at the stone tiles, his voice acidic. "Don't think that I don't realize what a girl coming across the castle could mean for our future," he said, his voice thickening and his grimace slowly fading away. "But there's a thought that's plagued my mind far more often than the possibility of becoming human again... The thought of staying forever in the body of this hideous thing that I am. And all of you trapped forever in whatever place you're left…" His eyes were staring blankly at the tile again. Snape was silent; he wasn't sure what he could say. "I understand that the fate of everyone who's ever cared for me is in my hands…" He looked at his arms and chuckled mirthlessly. "_Paws_."

He stared up at the moon again, eyes narrowing and mouth curving into that frightening sneer. Snape vaguely realized that it was still snowing and that he was very cold.

"But who's to say that girl down there won't run screaming at the very sight of me?" Draco turned toward Snape, his voice sharp and resentful. "Or if she stays, but decides within the next few days that the sight of me sickens her, what's stopping her from escaping? And when she returns home to tell everyone in her village that the old lunatic who keeps coming around here isn't really as senile and crazy as everyone would like to believe, what's stopping them from coming and terrorizing the castle until our time is up?" He turned back to the sky, lost in his thoughts. "Suppose she does stay here and my appearance doesn't completely make her cringe. Suppose she feels nothing for me for her entire stay except the deepest loathing for me, as her captor, and all of your efforts tonight are completely wasted." He scoffed. "And above all, _Sir _Snape… what even gives you the idea that I'll feel anything for this commoner?" His sneer returned, more horrid than before.

The wind blew against the glass panes of the door leading back into the tower. Snape repressed a shiver as the breeze nipped at his nose. Draco didn't seem to notice.

"Destined to love a peasant girl, am I?" Draco said with a small sad smile, his voice eerily hollow. "Or we're all destined for a horrible eternity to share with only ourselves, as we slowly descend into madness."

Snape didn't trust himself enough to speak. There were a few more moments of silence. Draco broke himself from his quiet little reverie.

"I'll let her stay here," Draco said indifferently. "But under my own terms. Understood?" Draco stood from the ledge and walked to the glass doors. He didn't bother letting Snape answer, and the chef knew it was rhetorical, anyway. Snape hopped down from the icy ledge, which now seemed like a very dangerous spot, being stories high above the ground. He hopped into the soft, fluffy padding of fresh snow on the balcony floor and followed his master back into that castle.

_Well, at least he's allowing her to stay_, Snape thought. But there was something in the way the Prince had agreed that Snape didn't like.

* * *

"Wait," Hermione paused. "My room? Surely you mean as in for tonight, only…" She looked at the three warily.

"Er," Blaise and Dean looked at each other. "Well…"

Hermione was about to ask him what he meant when she heard something in the corridor.

Her eyes widened slightly at the noise and she instinctively leaned slightly forward to hear. Only there weren't any footsteps; just a soft sweeping noise, as if someone was brushing a piece of fabric across the wall. She sent an inquisitive look in Blaise's direction, but it seemed that Hermione was long forgotten to all of her newfound friends, for they were obviously more concerned with whoever—or whatever—was out in the hall.

"Madam McGoo — McGonagall!" Blaise suddenly chirped. "How lovely you look this evening."

"Save it, Mr. Zabini," Hermione heard a woman's voice. She didn't sound pleased at all. "I don't have time or the patience to deal with your antics."

"So sorry, Madam." Blaise bowed. "My sincerest apologies."

"Spare me," said the woman, exasperated. Hermione could hear the sweeping sound more clearly now. She looked up, expecting to find a woman older than she, but saw nothing. The voice had sounded so close that she could've sworn she was in the room and yet, there was no woman.

"I'm right down here, dear," said the voice. Hermione looked down… and was amazed—yet somehow not entirely surprised—to see another not-so-inanimate item. There, sitting on the floor, was an old, worn, pointed hat. The hat's face was the only thing in which Hermione could truly see a resemblance to any human. Hermione was so caught up in the mesh of endless thoughts swimming around in her brain that she didn't realize that Dean was speaking to her.

"Miss Hermione Granger?"' He asked. "Miss Granger?"

"Hermione," he told him. "Call me, Hermione, please." She blinked a few times to clear the last couple of thoughts from her mind.

"Well, Miss Granger… or Hermione, I believe we owe you some explanations," the hat said in a very authoritative manner. "Allow me to introduce myself." She stepped out of the doorway and closer to the couch where Hermione sat. "You may refer to me as Madam McGonagall." _McGoogle,_ Blaise coughed quietly in the background. "I'm what you could call the headmistress of this castle." McGonagall, who had heard Blaise's comment and Dean's muffled sniggers, turned to give them an annoyed look. "Forgive me, but please excuse them. I hope they haven't given you an unpleasant impression of what we're like here at the castle."

"Oh, no. Not at all." Hermione said instantly. "They have been very courteous," She smiled slightly and Dean and Blaise puffed up with pride. _If not a little terrifying. _"You said 'what _we're_ like'—are there more of you?"

McGonagall gave a little solemn sigh and Blaise and Dean hopped closer to her feet. Midas flew over to the arm of the couch and looked at Hermione with sad eyes.

"Yes," McGonagall said simply. "Many more."

"But how—"

"We never used to be this way," McGonagall told her quietly. "We were human a few years before, but a great tragedy fell upon our kingdom." Hermione didn't say anything. "There was—" But she paused, as if unsure if she should go on. The others were looking at her earnestly; there was obviously something significant in what she was planning to say. "There was an extreme betrayal." McGonagall lowered her eyes, as did the others. "No one could've expected it, nor could it have been prevented in anyway. But because of it, we were cursed by a gypsy to live as what we are."

Hermione stayed silent, wanting to hear more and positive that she had nothing to say.

"A spell was cast upon us," she continued. "We, as in the servants of the royal family, were to take on the forms of the objects that we were most associated with."

"Royal family?" Hermione asked. McGonagall nodded.

"Just a few years before, this kingdom flourished. The King and Queen were… loved and admired, and at peace with all other kingdoms around. Have you ever heard of our kingdom? The royal Malfoy family?"

Hermione shook her head and she could've sworn that she heard Dean give a disappointed sigh.

"We were sure that the people who had left the kingdom—a great many people did—would have shared with others about what was happening. We thought that even despite the curse, we would have had that, at least."

_Wait,_ Hermione stiffened. _Oh my goodness_.

"Am I the first to… visit?" Hermione asked guardedly.

"The second, actually," Blaise said. "We've had a few _unwelcome_ visits from some lunatic who keeps causing trouble, but nothing other than that."

"Lunatic?" Hermione asked, but she already knew.

"Yeah," Dean scoffed. "The man's been trying to spy on us, you know. He breaks in through windows and all sorts of stuff, but he always gets away." Midas nodded fervently.

Hermione stiffened. _Mad-Eye! _Her mind screamed. _It was Mad-Eye, I'm sure of it! I can't believe it! But it was just a made up story, he can't have been telling the truth. He's not sane!_

_Well, neither are you._

"Bloody annoying, he is." Blaise commented, unaware of Hermione's epiphany.

"_Language_, Mr. Zabini."

"No worries, Madam. She's going to be staying with us for awhile, so there's no need to put up a formal act now. Besides, I'm sure Hermione here doesn't mind—"

"Wait a second." Hermione said suddenly. "You know," Hermione started. "I _have_ heard of this kingdom… in fairy tales." Blaise looked taken aback.

"Fairy tales?" Dean asked. He looked as if he wasn't exactly opposed to this idea.

"Am I in them?" Blaise asked.

"Mr. Zabini!"

"Sorry."

"The man who keeps coming to the castle—I know him. Well, in a manner of speaking. He tells stories to the children in my village on the other side of the forest." Hermione was vaguely reminded of the fact that she was losing whatever sanity she had left. "Erm… he used to tell us of a happy and peaceful kingdom on the other side, where no one fought and people were kind. But recently, his stories have been less than cheerful." She paused.

"So the bloke was spying on us for stories, was he?" Dean asked no one in particular. McGonagall shook her head.

"It was clear that he lived on the other side," she said. "But I never imagined that he was telling others about us in _fairy tales_. It's no wonder we didn't have other visitors," she said crossly. "No one would believe a maniac about us—if anything, our castle is the last place anyone would think of going." She sighed. "A _fairy tale_."

"Are you sure he didn't mention 'Blaise, the candlestick' at anytime?"

"_Mr. Zabini_."

"Sorry, sorry. What are his stories like now? What does he say?"

"He doesn't seem to know what's really going on, I suppose," Hermione said thoughtfully. "He has many theories and says that others who know of the castle have their own, though he never explains who these supposed individuals are." She thought back to when she was fourteen and of the version she had most recently heard. "The last time I heard him tell the story of the castle was a little less than three years ago. If the story's changed at all, I wouldn't know." She looked at them. "He described the kingdom as dark and gloomy; he said that the King and Queen were gone as well as most of the royal subjects. All that was left was this castle and the few servants still living here." Hermione then got to the topic she was actually most curious about. "He also mentioned… a Prince.

"He told us that this Prince, who had been popular among the kingdom much earlier on, was hiding from the rest of the world." She bit her bottom lip. "It was the Prince that Mad-Eye—what we call our story-teller—had the littlest information about. I guess he didn't know why someone would shun those who used to adore him and many others that crossed his path, especially when it seemed to Mad-Eye that he had been very happy in the past. He made up so many theories about what really happened that he couldn't keep all of them straight."

They all sat there in silence, no one moving to offer any other information. Hermione was curious about what kind of tragedy fell upon such an interesting group of people. A betrayal, she was told. But who betrayed them? And why? Hermione had a feeling that they weren't prone to conversation about the matter. But what _had _happened? In addition to these annoying questions, Hermione still didn't know the details of this… curse. She didn't know anything about this Prince either… did he know she was there? If he _were_ supposed to be hiding from everyone, would he really let her stay the night? Once again her mind was flooded with questions. She wanted to know more about this betrayal and this gypsy; what happened to all of them. Hermione wondered how powerful this curse was and if there was anything that—once she got a good night's sleep and found a way home—she could do to help them.

That is, of course, only if this whole _nightmare_ wasn't actually a dream.

Hermione was still questioning her sanity when Blaise interrupted her thoughts.

"You know," Blaise said. "Since you'll be here to break—"

"Hush," McGonagall said suddenly and the others looked at her in alarm. She thought she had heard something in the corridor. It seemed that Snape had finally succeeded in bringing their master down. What the verdict would be, well… McGonagall could only hope for the best. She was surprised at how long it had taken for them to come down; she and the others had a much longer conversation than she expected. McGonagall wasn't sure whether the delay could be considered good news or bad… Rather than attempting to interpret the actions of her master, she turned to Hermione.

"Dear, I'm terribly sorry," McGonagall said, hopping closer to her. She began to whisper, though she was fully aware that any attempts at some secrecy were futile with her master's impeccable hearing. "I should've warned you sooner, but I'm afraid our mouths got carried away with us." The sound of footsteps approaching grew closer. "Our master has been only just informed of your presence here—"

"I'm not intruding, am I?" Hermione looked alarmed.

"No, dear," McGonagall smiled slightly, but it was strained. "It's a pleasure to have you here, and all of us welcome you and are glad for your stay, I can assure you." Her smile faltered. "But I'm afraid our master does have a bit of a temper… And he's not very fond of visitors these days."

Not as if Hermione couldn't tell, what with the lovely doorknockers.

"I promise that if you just bear with us for awhile, your stay will be wonderful." McGonagall said.

"My stay? Just…" Hermione said, the footsteps drawing nearer. She frowned. "For how long exactly?" McGonagall didn't answer.

"Now," she said. "For my last warning." She looked at the doorway. "I should tell you that the curse was different for our master." She said this hurriedly, for the footsteps sounded _much_, much closer. Hermione thought she heard a slight clinking noise along with the footfall.

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

But she never received an answer.

The lights had gone out.

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

I don't know if I already mentioned that the name, Midas is from the fanfic _We'll Always Have Paris_ by Melissa D. It was one of the first Dramione fics I've ever read and it holds a specialy place in my heart. :3 Draco's owl in that fic was named Midas, and ever since then it just kinda stuck with me. Credit to the wonderful Melissa D at Schnoogle!

Thanks again, everyone!


	4. First Impressions

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**A/N:** Due to summer vacation, I'm writing at an unbelievable speed. YAY, SUMMER. Originally, this was only half of an actual chapter, but I'm getting impatient and want to update some more. So here you are.

**A/N EDIT:** _7/23/11_. Slight edits!

Enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 4: First Impressions**

* * *

_"Now," She said. "For my last warning." She looked at the doorway. "I should tell you that the curse was different for our master." She said this hurriedly, for the footsteps were almost to the room. Hermione thought she heard a slight clinking noise along with the footfall._

"What do you mean?" Hermione asked.

But she never received an answer.

The lights had gone out.

* * *

The fire was out in a sudden gust of wind, causing the room to go as dark as the inside of the forest. Blaise hadn't ducked as he felt the oncoming breeze and gave himself the trouble of re-lighting his flame, leaving the room completely pitch black until he could do so. Hermione gasped softly as she felt the cold air brush past her skin. Someone had entered the room. _Their master_, Hermione thought with trepidation.

"Master," she could hear Blaise speaking timidly. Such a stark contrast to the confident, wise guy disposition he had sported only a few moments before... Hermione preferred the laid-back personality over this frightened one. "Lovely evening, sir—"

"Silence," a deep voice cut through.

Hermione tried to swallow, but a giant lump had formed in her throat. It seemed that their master was probably going to be less welcoming than his subjects.

"Midas," the voice said. Hermione's eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark and she could barely see a flap of wings off to the side. "You're responsible. We'll discuss this later."

Hermione wasn't exactly fond of the bird—she was still sensitive about the whole ordeal in the forest and her less than dignified dance routine at the edge—but she felt some sort of protectiveness for the owl against this Prince. But his aura was overwhelming, so for now, she kept her mouth shut and her breathing as quiet as she could.

"You, peasant."

At first Hermione wasn't quite sure whom he was addressing; _peasant_wasn't exactly a name she answered to regularly. As she ignored the rising force of her indignation, Snape and McGonagall meanwhile lamented their master's behavior. It looked as if it was taking everything McGonagall had to behave herself.

"I meant no harm!" Hermione told the voice suddenly, feeling her indignation being overtaken by her confusion. "All I wanted was a place to stay, a place to rest before I returned to my village. I didn't realize the castle was still inhabited, and I swear that I intended no one any inconvenience. If you will just please excuse my mistake, I can leave immediately—"

"Silence," He said quickly. "Those who have entered this castle do not leave." Hermione looked up.

"What?" She breathed.

"Too many times has an unwanted visitor taken what he has seen of our lives and used it for his personal gain. You have entered my territory without permission and are therefore a trespasser. You know too much and cannot be trusted; therefore you are prohibited from leaving the castle, and are now my prisoner." An awkward silence followed.

"Prisoner?" Hermione whispered, her mind reeling. "No, please!" She exclaimed hurriedly, wondering how everything could already be crashing down around her when she couldn't even fully realize what was happening. "I promise I won't tell anyone about any of this—I swear it! But I can't stay here! I need to go back home!" Hermione ran her hands through her hair, getting caught in tangles, but she didn't notice. _Wake up, wake up._

"Your promises mean nothing," the voice said impatiently, indifferently. "This is where you live now."

"Please!" Hermione whispered. _Wake up_. "I _can't_stay here—let me go!" She looked around frantically in the darkness but saw nothing.

"You're wasting your breath," he said, as if that settled the matter. "McGonagall," he barked.

"Yes, my lord?" Her voice was strained.

"I take it then that you'll be informing the girl of her new arrangements, then?" Hermione sank back into the couch with her head in her hands; hearing but not hearing the voices as they discussed her fate.

_Just wake up._

But by now Hermione had realized that she was anything but fast asleep in the comfort of her bed.  
_  
There has to be some way out of this,_ She thought. _There has to be, I just need time to think._

The master gave an impatient cough. Hermione looked up in the direction of the voice. _I need more time._Lowering her head in defeat, she gave a tiny nod. There was nothing she could do until she came up with a plan.

"Come," it ordered. There was a rustle of fabric and the clinking sound of a cauldron moving along the floor. Hermione reluctantly obeyed, slowly standing up from the couch and taking a step forward.

The door opened on its own accord, gradually allowing light from the corridor to filter into the room. Hermione glanced toward the spot where she supposed their master should be, but he had shrunken into the shadows. She paused, unsure of whether or not she was supposed to go first or not.

But her silent question was answered when she heard a soft noise to the right. Her head instinctively turned in that direction and her eyes instantly searched for any source of movement. There was another pause, one that seemed almost hesitant to Hermione, before she heard the rustling sound of a cloak and a footstep against the floor.

A small gasp escaped her dry lips. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn't take a step backwards; her feet seemed to be stuck to the floor.

Towering over her was a creature like nothing she had ever seen before. So tall was he that she was practically facing the ceiling to see his head, which along with the rest of his body was covered in thick, dark golden fur. What with the two short ears perched upon his head, a long wolfish snout and teeth sharper than any blade in any butcher's shop, she barely noticed that the feet and hands were paws equipped with claws only slightly duller than the razor-sharp teeth. When she had recovered from the initial shock, she was instantly reminded of a dog or a wolf—some canine, only this creature was capable of standing on two feet. She subconsciously began racking her brain for information about this creature. _Where have I heard of something like this before?_

The beast did nothing but glare at her with his cold, gray eyes. Hermione felt her breath hitch in her throat at the _hatred_within them; they were saturated with blame, with accusation, as if she were the sole bane of his existence, as if he were using every ounce of his energy to searing his loathing onto her soul. A little voice in the corner of her mind frantically searched for any explanation—what could she have done to deserve this unavoidable, scorching gaze? Surely this could not be the result of such a simple misunderstanding as getting lost in the woods. But his eyes…

What an extremely strange pair to belong to such a creature. The eyes didn't seem to fit the form of the beast, although they certainly seemed to suit his personality. Bluish-gray spheres of ice that burned like fire.

As Hermione found her breath again, the beast—the creature, whatever he was—turned and faced the door with a swish of a black cloak that she hadn't realized he'd been wearing. Hermione watched a small black cauldron follow his master out the door and although she was no longer surprised at its ability to move, she had forgotten that there were others in the room besides the creature. A few short moments later, Midas soared out after them. She stood there for a few seconds in a shocked silence, half covered in the light coming in from the corridor, and oblivious to the anxious stares she was receiving from the rest of the supposedly royal subjects.

"Miss Granger," Madam McGonagall spoke softly. She slowly inched her way to where Hermione was looking out into the corridor, watching their master make his way down the hallway. "There is much to explain—I'm afraid too much for tonight, but I promise that all of your questions will be answered soon." Blaise and Dean made their way over to Hermione's feet as well. "I imagine how tired you must be, and I'm certain beyond all measure that this confusion cannot be aiding your state." Hermione finally tore her eyes away from the beast's back and looked down at them. Unspoken apologies were clearly written across their solemn faces.

For a split second, Hermione had the irrational thought that when she would have finally come up with an escape plan, she wouldn't have the heart to leave them. What kind of life have they endured? She knew so little about them. She had to help, somehow.

_But the others…_

Images of Ron and Harry and Ginny swirled mercilessly in her mind, and the determination returned full-force; there were _others _who were counting on her. She wished to help these newfound acquaintances, but hadn't Ron been the one to tell her just a few short weeks ago that she should stop focusing so intently on looking out for other creatures, and focus on taking care of herself? Her lips dipped downward grimly as she thought of Auror's masquerade through the forest. _Oh, Ron… If only I had listened to you._

She would _have_ to leave at the first opportunity, no matter the consequences. If she could help these melancholy creatures she would, but she _had_to concentrate on getting out first. She knew almost nothing about any of them. What if this was some kind of trap? Was that even possible? Were these small, dismal beings really capable of doing something like that? And what would their motives be for such a plot?

But her mind wouldn't have any more of it. Her headache was doubling in pain and was throbbing with such a consistent rhythm that Hermione felt the need to push the heels of her palm into her temples until her brain squished out through the top.

"I _said_to follow me," the beast ground out from quite a distance ahead. He was waiting at the end of the hall, but not too patiently. His furry arms were crossed and his scowl had grown none the more pleasant.

"Come along then, Miss Granger," Madam McGonagall told her quietly. "You may visit Mr. Zabini and Mr. Thomas tomorrow, if you like." She turned in their direction and gave them a silent order to behave themselves as much as possible after they left, for she knew that asking them to go to sleep at the moment was futile. With a small nod and a "Goodnight, Hermione" from each, they turned around headed back to their sleeping areas, no doubt planning to discuss the night's events the second they were sure that the others were out of earshot.

"Goodnight to you both," Hermione whispered without feeling as she took a step out of the room.

Hanging her head and looking at the carpet, she wordlessly made her way down the corridor with McGonagall. Hermione didn't fail to notice, however, the almost inaudible scoffs and sighs the creature was making as he impatiently waited for her to catch up. But she was so tired…

"Move along, peasant," he snapped, now obviously annoyed. She was only five feet or so away from him. "We don't have all night, you know."

Her head snapped up so fast that she was sure that she had heard it crack. She wasn't as surprised to hear the insult the second time, but the indignity had now returned with a vengeance; apparently, sleep deprivation was a great alleviator of fear. As her eyebrows furrowed in unbidden anger and her mouth opened slightly in protest, Hermione immersed herself in a fierce staring contest between the _Prince_and herself.

He was glaring daggers at her, that was for certain, but he seemed to be searching for something else simultaneously. Perhaps he was just waiting for her reaction; watching her for any signs of fear or an urge to run away. Whatever it was, she didn't like the feeling of such scrutiny, and so she rose to the challenge. Hermione stared up at him, trying to make herself as tall as she could—which obviously didn't come as much of an advantage—and, unblinking, Hermione told him just what was on her mind.

"I'm moving just fine, considering," Hermione rasped, affronted and irritated. If the cauldron or the hat seemed surprised, they didn't show it; they merely shared a small wary glance.

"It's all a matter of opinion," he spat, his lips curving up into a sneer.

"Then perhaps—"

"I think," he cut in smoothly, his raspy voice taking an alarming tone. It was becoming extremely difficult not to strangle her, after all, he noted. "That there are a few things that I need to make _crystal_ clear." He took a step closer to her and the sneer grew. Hermione made no attempt to speak, but held her ground. "You are a prisoner. Prisoners are not often asked for their _suggestions_, nor are they without stipulations and rules." He took another step, emphasizing his height more than ever, but Hermione managed not to flinch.

"Firstly," he snipped impatiently as Hermione glared. "You are to do what you are told the second you're told to do it. Why don't we make this understanding a little bit easier on you with a simple demonstration—here is a perfect example. I'm ordering you to follow me. You are to walk no more or no less than five steps behind me at all times. Understand? Or am I going too fast for you?" Hermione's mouth was open in outrage. She was suddenly _very_ awake, adrenaline filling her blood with power, her lungs with air, and her mind with _plenty _of perfectly-constructed angry retorts that she—

"Good. Secondly, you'll eat when I eat. If I don't feel particularly hungry one day, then you won't eat until I sit down at a table and I'm satisfied. You, however, will be eating in the kitchen with the servants so I won't be forced to endure your ill-bred table etiquette." A turn to the left.

"Thirdly, Since you're planning on escaping…" Hermione burning eyes jumped to his as he turned his head to look at her behind him. "Oh, please, girl, I know you already are." His voice came out icy and bitter as he turned back to look ahead. "It might be a good idea for me to warn you that if you _do_manage to make it out of the castle without my notice," he scoffed. "Then you won't have the same protection against the forest creatures as you did tonight." Hermione was listening intently. "I don't know what possessed Midas to help you," he looked nastily in the owl's direction, which shrank back and swooped down on the opposite side of Snape, using the cauldron as a shield from his master's piercing gaze. "But I can guarantee that it won't happen again.

"Fourthly," he continued. Hermione briefly turned her attention away from him to look around; her head had started throbbing more painfully if possible. With an overwhelming sense of helplessness, she realized that she had absolutely no idea where she was in the castle. She hadn't been keeping track of where they were going and didn't know how to get back. A lump formed in her throat. _How can this get any worse?_

But Hermione didn't come up with any appropriate answers because she noticed that the creature was no longer talking. Instead, he was whispering something harshly to the cauldron on the ground. Her brows scrunched together as she desperately tried to hear what they were saying, but their voices were extraordinarily quiet.

Hermione pretended be greatly interested in some vase off to the right while watching the trio out of her peripheral vision, but the fierce expression on her features made it impossibly difficult to look innocent. Although she couldn't fully make out what was being said, she did hear little bits and pieces like "room" and "insane" and "cheesecake."

But maybe she had misheard that last one.

"The fourth," he continued, more crossly than before. "Concerns your allowed locations in this castle. There are limits." She thought she heard McGonagall give a tiny little sigh, which was confirmed by a small twitch of the creature's short wolf-like ears, and a short glare that he sent back in McGonagall's direction. The hat paid it no mind. "You are allowed in the following areas: all of the corridors leading directly to the kitchen and all of the chambers along your quarter's corridor, the floor directly above your room—"

"Room?" Hermione couldn't stop herself. "You're not putting me in a dungeon cell or an ominous tower?" He went very still as she mentioned the dungeons, but it was so brief and so slight that Hermione nearly missed it.

"Would you prefer it there?" The beast ground out through clenched teeth, seemingly angry at the interruption.

"No."

"Then shut up." He said, annoyed. Hermione began making not-so-nice—yet subtle—faces at his back. "And finally, the Entrance Hall." They had come to a staircase. "If I find you in any place other than the ones mentioned," he paused and turned his head to look at her—who had noticed the movement just in time to stop her most recent rude gesticulation at his back. "There will be a price to pay." His voice was dangerously low; this creature was serious.

"And the fifth," His voice resumed to its normal, superior tone. "If you don't bother me, I won't bother you. There is no curfew, but if you disturb me in anyway, expect a punishment." He threw a threatening glare in her direction. "Stay off my nerves and your stay will be a semi-comfortable one."

The cauldron gave a small cough—which could have passed for a fake, and Midas slapped his feathery head with his wing. They reached the top of the stairs.

"My servants are here to assist you," It seemed to pain him to say all this. "They'll be showing you the way to the kitchen and wherever else you want to go—that is, of course, an acceptable location." He took a deep breath as if he was mentally preparing for what was to come. "Your stay at my castle will be a long one, so I suggest that you try to stay on good terms with me." He turned around to glare at her. "I'm not too congenial when I'm angry." It took a lot for Hermione to keep her expression neutral and to stop herself from commenting. They took another right. _I wonder if he calls _this_ congenial…_

They walked in silence down a high-ceilinged hallway, which was carpeted with the same red rug as the hallways close to the Entrance Hall. The walls and floor were made of stone and at the end of the corridor was a window that practically matched the height of the wall, through which you could see that the snow was still gently falling to the ground. She couldn't see the moon for it was probably all the way on the other side of the castle, setting and waiting for the arrival of the sun…

That must mean that my room is in the East Wing... She noted, adding this to a small mental list of useful information. Also on this list was the number of floors she had traveled and some basic "left-right" directions from the spot where she'd realized that she didn't know where she was. _I'll have to learn more about this castle later._

Looking back out the window she could also see the very tips of those mysteriously large trees expanding out into the vast forest, only to come to an end at a line of snow-capped mountains that Hermione could still never really remember seeing from her house.

_Home_.

The lump was back in her throat, larger and trying to make it difficult to breathe more than ever. She could feel the tears welling up in the corners of her eyes and for one terrifying moment, Hermione was sure that they'd spill down her cheeks and crash to the ground in outrageously loud splashes, splattering herself and filling up the corridor until she drowned in them. But before she could flood anything, the creature began to speak again.

"This," He said, stopping in front of the set of doors closest to the window. "Will be your room."

Swallowing the lump and looking up, Hermione saw two elegant doors made of cherry wood, glossed and stained for a shiny finish. The brass door handles were simple enough, but the whole effect was rather luxurious.

The creature quickly turned one of the handles and held the door open for her impatiently. Upon entering the room, Hermione found that she no longer had the power to walk. Frozen to her spot just a meter away from the door, Hermione stood in complete awe at her surroundings, lips parted in wonder.

This was definitely something that no one in her village could ever _hope_to afford.

Everywhere she looked was opulence. Tasteful and ornate furniture with refined and courtly matching bed curtains and comforters. Fresh white linens peeking out from under the feather quilts and pillows that looked fluffier and fuller than any she had ever seen before. And as for the pillows - there were more pillows on that bed than she had ever seen in a shop! Some even looked like she wasn't supposed to put her head on them.

_Scratch that. Not even the entire village put together could afford this!_

The floor was a lighter wood than the doors, but suited the room and all of its cherry wood furniture nicely. The ceiling and the walls were of the same stone that she saw in the corridor. To her right was a large bed, big enough to surely fit at least ten people in it, and beyond the bed was a room, which she assumed to be the washroom. At the wall opposite of her, there was a large red seat below a large window. The window above cushioned bench allowed her to barely see the tops of the trees and the mountain off in the distance. She was on a fairly high floor. Hermione subconsciously added that to her list.

"And a tip," the creature, who had been watching her reaction from his place in the doorway with his paw still on the handle, broke her from her reverie. "You may want to wash up, that stench of yours is disgusting." His nose scrunched up in displeasure, further proving his point. Hermione turned around, bristling with resentment, and exhaled sharply as her brows scrunched together while she formed a reasonable reply.

But yet again, before she managed to respond, the creature had cut her off. He slammed the door with enough strength to make the door shudder in its frame, and all was silent except for Hermione's ragged breathing… and the resounding echo of the Prince's exit.

Taking deep breaths, Hermione closed her eyes, trying to think of anything—anything—else.

With a cry of fury, Hermione thrust her fists into the air and made her way over to the bed.

"That _jerk_," Hermione mumbled. "That overbearing, arrogant, egotistical _prat_!" She grumbled on, quite enjoying the satisfaction of finally voicing her thoughts. "Smug, domineering git! That conceited, stuck up _bastard_!" And with another groan of anger and frustration, Hermione plopped down onto the bed ungracefully and savagely ripped one of the pillows from their neat arrangement near the head.

Burying her head into the pillow, Hermione suddenly felt grateful that no one had been there to witness her lack of control. Feeling ashamed and more homesick than ever, Hermione bit her bottom lip, wincing as its soft skin brushed up against the scratchy material of the pillow. She had the sudden need to cry.

"I'm not usually this—well, violent back home," she spoke quietly to herself, shamefully. "Even during rows with Harry or Ron-I'm not like this at all. Sure I'll yell and throw a few deserved barbs, but it's never like this…" But this shame was quickly replaced by sadness and homesickness. "None of them have any idea where I am," she whispered, hollow. "Auror most likely went back," she said, feeling the pang of hurt she felt at the fact that it was all his doing—unintentionally, for certain—that got her here. "I don't understand what he was doing, but—even _if_ Auror's there, the others wouldn't think of anything like this. It may be a while before they even notice I'm gone." Hermione started to talk rapidly. "It could be days until they need to talk to me again!" She suddenly panicked, gasping quietly, and covered her mouth with a hand.

"Mr. Weasley's birthday dinner!" She said, horrified. "I promised that I'd be there!" She ran her hands through her crazy mop, tangling the curls even more. "Oh no! They'll think I'm mad at them or—and Ron! Ah, _Ron_!" She dropped her head into her hands. "I can only imagine how he's going to reason out my absence. Or they could think I'm sick. Then they'd come to check up on me and find that I'm missing… but then they'll automatically assume the worst and have no clue as to where I really am…" She closed her eyes and laid down on her stomach, holding onto the pillow for dear life. "They'll think I've been kidnapped by bandits or something." She chuckled mirthlessly at the absurdity of her actual situation. "When I'm really being held prisoner by a creature who's basking in the nonexistent rays of his superiority in a cursed castle beyond a mystical forest which lies right in my backyard!" She spat, the volume of her voice gradually rising.

"But it's not like I wanted to stay in this castle!" She told the pillow angrily. "It's not my fault this Prince —" Her brows furrowed in thought for a moment, deflated. "I don't even know his name." With a sigh, she shook her head to clear the thought. "It doesn't matter what his name is—he's nothing but a stubborn prat with a royal scepter shoved up his—"

"Now, now, I think that pillow has suffered enough."

With a small cry, Hermione instantly dropped the pillow she hadn't realized that she'd been tearing apart. She glanced around the room for the female voice that she'd heard.

"Who said that?"

"Me!" The voice spoke again. "Over here!" Hermione watched in growing amazement—but not with so much surprise, she was getting used to this by now—as her cherry wardrobe just walked over to her, using each of its four wooden legs while eyes and a mouth appeared above the cabinet doors. "My name is Parvati Patil, but you can just call me Parvati." The armoire giggled.

It giggled. Hermione had a wardrobe that giggled.

_Oh, dear._

"And I'm Lavender Brown! Who are you?" Asked a voice from the left. Looking over, Hermione saw her matching bureau join Parvati at the bed.

"Uhm, Hermione," she answered, suddenly finding herself dumbfounded. "I'm Hermione."

"Well," Parvati said, not missing a beat. "I'm sure you have much to talk about!" Parvati exclaimed. "So go on! How did you get here?"

"Why'd you come? Where do you live? Was it scary in the forest?" Lavender chirped in.

"Have you met Blaise yet? Have you seen the courtyard? What do you think of our master?"

"How old are you? What's your family like? How do you feel about wearing the color green?"

There have only been a few times in Hermione's life during which Hermione had felt that people were truly, unnecessarily invading her personal space. This, Hermione decided, definitely qualified as one of the times where people were uninvitingly entering her proverbial bubble.

"I—"

"Ooh!" Lavender bounced up and down, though careful not to break her giant mirror. "I'm so excited! We finally have someone to dress up!"

"Eh?"

"Yes!" Parvati agreed. "Hermione—" But she stopped herself short and sighed. She looked Hermione over carefully, taking in her dirty and disheveled appearance. Hermione didn't often feel self-conscious around others, but under Parvati's analytical stare and disapproving look, it was difficult not to. "Lavender?"

"Yes?"

Hermione sensed that the two seemed to be having an unspoken conversation with one another. They were plotting something evil, she was sure of it. And Hermione was growing more and more afraid of their evil plans the more she watched the expressions on their faces. With mounting horror, she saw their eyes start to look almost predatory, and quickly tried to think of what terrible things they could be planning for her.

"I think our first target should be the hair," Lavender announced, lifting her face to stare at the brown mess residing atop Hermione's head.

"My hair?" Hermione asked worriedly, reaching up to protectively grab a clump near her face. She was somewhat bothered by the number of twigs and leaves entwined in it, but didn't have much time to think about them.

"Oh, I definitely agree," Parvati told her, ignoring Hermione's question. "What do you think? A braid maybe? That should tame the frizz a little, don't you think?"

"A wonderful idea!" Lavender's smile returned. "And then—for formal occasions— a bun, perhaps? A chignon? An upswept French knot?"

"I—"

"Brilliant, Lavender!" Parvati was also smiling. "And for tomorrow I think she should wear _this_." Instantly one of her doors popped open and a large display of different dresses in various colors and styles appeared before their eyes.

"But—" Hermione tried to cut in desperately.

"Oh, wonderful choice, Parvati!" Lavender cooed. "I love the color! It will really bring out the base tones in her complexion!"

"I thought so," Parvati said as she held up a pretty green dress. "It should fit, I think." She held it up in front of Hermione to get a clearer picture in her mind of what it'd look like.

"Now wait just a—"

"Good evening, ladies. I'm afraid we're going to have to interrupt."

With an overwhelming sense of relief, Hermione turned towards the door to find Madam McGonagall—and Midas perched on the door handle—there, both looking tired and ready for a nice long nap.

"Madam McGonagall," Hermione breathed with such gratitude that it was barely believable.

"Miss Patil, Miss Brown," she addressed them as she neared the bed. "I'm going to have to ask you to hold off for tonight." She reached the bed. At first Hermione thought that she was going to jump up onto the bed, but then she realized that it was much too high for her. She found it slightly amusing when Midas came swooping down, picked McGonagall up by the tip and dropped her clumsily onto the bed.

"A little more gently, next time," McGonagall said, somewhat annoyed while Midas somehow managed to look sheepish. After taking a moment to compose herself, McGonagall cleared her throat and began to speak.

"I believe we owe you an explanation," She said quietly, her voice taking on a more somber tone. Lavender and Parvati's excitement, which had died down considerably since McGonagall entered, had completely diminished at the sight of her grave expression. McGonagall quickly glanced at the two girls. _Asking them to leave would be futile; they'd merely eavesdrop,_ she thought. _I'll just have to make do, I suppose_. "I know you must have many questions—all of which cannot be answered in one night. And I know for a fact that you will have many more by the time I leave you to rest tonight, but for now, I'm afraid that you'll have to be satisfied with what information I can give you." She sighed. "I think you need to hear our story…

"Just three years ago, this castle—this cold and empty shelter that you are now in, was a magnificent palace surrounded by a grand and peaceful kingdom. And the royal family, the Malfoys—"

"Rest their souls," Parvati and Lavender said in unison. McGonagall nodded solemnly, her fabric lips tight.

"The Malfoys had been in control of the kingdom for generations. For centuries and centuries the Malfoys had reigned over our people, and all was well." McGonagall paused to let this information sink in. Her eyes turned to the designs in the comforter on the bed. "All was well—or, at least, we thought it was.

"Without war, famine or conflict for years, we were happy and content with what we had. But it seemed that years of inexplicable peace had made us naïve and unaware. We were oblivious to the treason being conducted before our very eyes. Even now, I still find it difficult to believe that such a traitor could come from the one that the Malfoys trusted the most." She sighed. "But the one who was hurt the most," She closed her eyes in remembrance. "Was Master Draco Malfoy, our current Lord and Master—who you met tonight."

"Draco?" Hermione asked quietly, letting the word sink in. _It's an odd name_, she mused, thinking of her own.

"Oh," McGonagall looked slightly embarrassed. "I beg your pardon, child, assumed that you had been informed of his name by perhaps Dean or Blaise."

"Ahh!" The girls squealed loudly, catching Hermione off guard and causing her to jump two inches off the bed. "So you have met Blaise! What do you think?"

"_Ladies_," McGonagall's warning tone quieted them some, but it was her stern look that did the trick. Hermione had gotten the impression over the course of the night's activities that Madam McGonagall was not someone to cross.

"As I was saying," she coughed and gave the two another look. The girls giggled in response, and Hermione had a very hard time trying not to roll her eyes. "It was Draco that was hurt the most by the betrayal." She said quietly and as before, the girls suddenly become quiet and serious.

"But," Hermione began. "What happened? Who betrayed the royal family?"

There was a moment of complete silence and for a second Hermione thought that she had said something terribly offensive by the looks on their faces.

"You must know, Miss Granger," McGonagall whispered so quietly that she had to strain to hear her. "That we do not speak of this betrayal. Ever." She looked Hermione directly in the eyes. "It is forbidden."

"The Prince forbids you to talk about it?"

"He has never directly told us to never speak of it, but we know what it would mean for any of us to openly converse about the matter. No one ever dares to mention the ordeal in his presence and during the few times that must be mentioned, it is discussed far out of his hearing range. And above all, Miss Granger: we do not say his name." Hermione found that even if she had wanted to, she would not have been able to tear her eyes away from McGonagall's. "Instead, we refer to him as 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' or 'You-Know-Who'." Her whisper was still extremely quiet. "Do not ask me to speak his name because you will find that I'm now physically incapable of speaking it. It certainly pains me to even think it," she said earnestly. "In fact, if it were not for this curse, I'd have removed his name from my memory years ago entirely."

"But what _is_this curse?" Hermione couldn't refrain from asking any longer. "Who put this spell on all of you? And why?"

"I think," McGonagall spoke. "That I need to continue on with my story to fully answer your questions. Or at least, answer them the best I can for tonight…

"We were not yet aware of his great betrayal even as his plans were unfolding. So careless were… we didn't even realize what was happening even while we were in the midst of it all.

"A few months before we were cursed, the King and Queen, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, grew deathly ill. They passed away not a month after."

"Rest their souls," they repeated again in unison while Midas bowed his head. Hermione watched in somber silence.

"Rest their souls," she repeated. "As expected, the kingdom was in turmoil. But not as much as their son, Draco."

_So his parents are dead…_ Hermione thought. _We have something in common._ She felt a pang in her chest at the thought of her own parents, but her snarling features made it difficult for him to consider him with sympathy. Not when he acted like such an _arse_.

This Prince. What was he exactly?

"For days he wouldn't leave his room," McGonagall broke Hermione from her thoughts. "He'd barely eat what we brought to him and he wouldn't speak to any of us—not even Sir Snape. You've met Severus Snape—not properly of course, but you've seen him. He was the black cauldron that accompanied Master Draco to your room. You'll soon learn that if there's anyone who can get Master Draco to do something, it's Sir Snape. I won't go off on Sir Snape for too long, for I know that Blaise and Dean will surely explain and introduce you to most of the castle tomorrow, but I will tell you what I think you should know.

"Sir Snape, although only a chef in the kitchen and technically considered a servant, has always had a soft spot for Master Draco—and everyone in the castle can see it. However, know that if he were to ever hear anyone voice that out loud, there would certainly be punishments dealt." The rip in the hat that served as a mouth threatened to curl upwards in an amused grin, but McGonagall quickly caught herself and continued. "Just as Snape has some paternal feelings for Master Draco, Draco has a great deal of trust for Sir Snape."

McGonagall paused, unsure of how much she should tell. Looking at Hermione, she could tell that the girl was confused... If she should tell just how attached her Master was to Severus, she'd mostly likely end up telling Hermione at some point about the intense attachment Master Draco had once felt to Riddle…

Closing her eyes and pushing the painful memories away, she looked back at Hermione, who was still regarding her with a curious expression. Deciding not to tell Hermione everything just yet, she continued on.

"Our master," she started, choosing her words carefully. "As you can see, isn't exactly fond of—" She searched for the right word, but found no acceptable euphemism. She just hoped the truth wouldn't push Hermione even farther away from liking him—let alone getting her to love him. So, desperate and tired, she chose one of the less impolite words. "Well, he isn't fond of—_commoners_, in general, you might say." She sounded a little sheepish.

Hermione resisted the urge to snort.

"I figured." It took a lot for Hermione not to be sarcastic with McGonagall. She didn't want to vent her anger at the beast on Madam McGonagall, especially when McGonagall was being so kind to her.

"Yes, well," McGonagall sighed. "It's been a bit of a _family _trait, from what I've heard. Despite that, he's very fond of the our executive chef, Sir Snape. Our master will follow Snape's will over anyone else's. So while Master Draco can be cold and arrogant sometimes," She said, once again choosing her diction precisely. "He can very unsure and insecure at others. And as hard as it is to believe," She said with meaningful glance at Hermione—who, whether she knew it or not herself, was hanging on to Mcgonagall's every word. With a tiny triumphant smile, McGonagall continued. "He can be very caring when he wants to be." _Ohh, what he would do to me if he heard me say any of this… _McGonagall thought with a shudder.

"Caring?" Hermione asked incredulously, an eyebrow rose inquisitively. McGonagall nodded.

"I know." She continued to nod. "But you'll see soon enough. Yes," she stopped nodding. "You'll see."

Curious about McGonagall's suddenly wistful tone, but more curious about the other questions floating around in her mind, Hermione spoke.

"So the betrayal really happened during his parents' death?" She asked quietly. "Or was it after?"

"Actually, dear," McGonagall said, sad and tired once again. "I rather think that he had something to do with their deaths." Her eyes narrowed. "Not that there's any evidence of course, but… you can imagine." She sighed. "I don't know how he could've done it, but I just have to believe that it was his doing.

"Master Draco was heartbroken. Completely isolated himself for days and days. The King and Queen were dead, and the majority of our population thought that it wasn't worth staying. Only those truly loyal to the Malfoy family remained. But now with the Queen and King gone, we needed another ruler. But Master Draco was still only on the brink of young adulthood, and certainly not old enough to rule an entire kingdom by himself.

"Slowly and gradually Master Draco began to emerge from his room, at first only roaming the corridors and still silent to all he passed. Then little by little, he started to become his old self again. First speaking to—well, You-Know-Who, then to Snape and myself, and occasionally to a servant he was particularly close to." Hermione realized that her resolve was weakening—she almost felt bad for the beast. _Almost_. He was still an offensive rascal—one that needed to show her a slice of respect before she went around showing him sympathy.

_Come on, _her mind argued. _Show some compassion. Look at all he's been through.  
_  
_**Look at all I've been through!**_ Another voice argued. _**Look at everything that I've had to do on my own!**_

_But did you have an entire kingdom resting on your shoulders? Did the fate of hundreds of people lie in your hands at such a young age? _Her mind countered.

_**That's no excuse for his arrogance! He's my age and he hasn't done anything extraordinary!**_

_Not that you know, anyway._

_**Oh, please. He was born into royalty! So he's rich, struts around his big empty castle and rules a bunch on cursed royal subjects—now that's an accomplishment!**_

But she suddenly felt ashamed of her earlier thoughts about the Prince and the lack of sympathy she felt for him, even if he _was_ an arrogant git and didn't _deserve_ any sympathy from her. She still thought of him as a prat, that certainly hadn't changed, but she felt bad that she _hadn't_felt bad for him…

"The curse was placed on us on the eve of his coronation," McGonagall began to speak quickly. "We were all preparing for the ceremony that was supposed to have taken place the next day, painting and cooking and cleaning like normal." Hermione heard one of the girls sniff to the left of her. She had forgotten that they were in the room with her.

"We were content," she said simply. "We were still mourning the loss of our King and Queen, but we were healing. His coronation was supposed to be a celebration, despite the fact that it only reminded us of his parents' deaths. We were trying.

"The majority of the servants had been in the grand ballroom at the time… you most likely saw it as you came in. It's large and beautiful and absolutely wonderful with the right atmosphere, but there won't be a single time that I don't step into it and not remember the events that occurred there on That Night." She looked at the designs in the comforter, finding that they were much safer to look at than the sad faces of her fellow servants or Hermione's confused one.

"It was late; the exact time escapes my memory," she went on in monotone. "The master barged into the ballroom, looking lost and confused. We tried to go toward him as he went to the center of the ballroom, but before anyone got near enough—he grabbed his head in pain.

"The next thing we knew," McGonagall became very, very quiet. "He was a werewolf."

"A… werewolf?" Her brows furrowed as she let her words sink in. "But how can that be?" She asked finally. "I've read about them, and if he _is_one, then why isn't he—I mean, how is that he can speak and walk like humans? Wouldn't a werewolf just be running around and…" She couldn't bring herself to finish. McGonagall nodded.

"That Night, he was not like he is now," she went on. "He was a real werewolf."

"You mean…" Hermione breathed. She nodded again.

"Countless people died. The entire kingdom was chaos; people everywhere were in a panic. The rest of the kingdom left out of fear, losing whatever respect they had might have had for the family.

"Finally, after hours and hours of running and hiding and tending to those who still had a dying chance, the sun began to rise… Master Draco had somehow made his way to the ballroom again when the moon went down over the horizon. I had been in the kitchens earlier with Snape to retrieve some more of the injured and tend to their wounds when we heard. We were going to run for our lives when suddenly everything became silent. We looked on from a crack in the door. Master Draco was grabbing his head, and our master returned, but… he didn't change back.

"The creature swayed and tottered because he was unused to his feet and looked more confused and lost than ever. I think I remember that he almost vomited at the sight of the dead and torn bodies littering the floor… the scent must have been driving him crazy as well. And yet—all he did was stare at the blood on his paws.

"And then," Her eyes narrowed dangerously. Hermione was shocked by the sudden change in her tone. "You-Know-Who arrived out of nowhere, and he _must _have been insane… He demanded to know why he wasn't dead," she spat venomously. "At that time, Snape and I came out from behind the door as quietly as we could. We didn't know what we could do to help, but I remember that we were willing to try _anything_…

"And then completely out of nowhere there was this—this puff of green smoke and this woman appeared out of thin air." She looked at Hermione somewhat sheepishly. "I kid you not. I remember that when I first saw her, I couldn't believe my eyes. Her magic was merely trickery to me; all of it was nonsense. But it had appeared that this gypsy, Sybill Trelawney… she and You-Know-Who had made a deal of some sort." Her eyes were narrowed again. "You-Know-Who demanded to know why he wasn't dead.

"When the gypsy spoke, we were all suddenly in—well, a dream-like trance, you could say. She told us all that killing him was never her intentions; rather, she wanted to teach him an important lesson. She just repeated what she had said earlier, going on about what You-Know-Who had hired her for—calm the entire time! Like she knew things would work out… she went on and on about the good in Master Draco"—she couldn't resist sneaking a glance at Hermione, but the girl was staring at the comforter—"and the grudges that You-Know-Who was carrying.

"You-Know-Who tried to attack the gypsy, but Master Draco was quicker and went after him." She sighed at the memory. "It was all very confusing—we didn't know what to believe.

"Master Draco grabbed the knife… I suppose it seemed more human, as terrible as that sounds, for him to use the knife rather than his bloodied paws… but You-Know-Who was already dying from the impact of having been thrown to the floor and the master's weight crushing down on him.

"You-Know-Who said something to him then, but we couldn't hear what it was." She whispered, shaking with rage. "But whatever it was, it hit a nerve. Master Draco stabbed him, then stood up unsteadily and dropped the knife… he just stood there, shaking and staring for what seemed like an eternity."

Hermione couldn't speak.

"I'll never forget the scream that echoed throughout all of the castle's walls… and during all this, the gypsy hadn't moved one bit. He turned his attention to her then…"

She paused.

She couldn't tell her what would break the spell. Not yet.

"Then what?" Hermione asked, finding herself terrified that she'd stop at a place like that. "What happened?"

"I don't remember the exact words that the gypsy said," she started again. "Severus wrote everything down as soon as he could, word for word... Though, I do know that she did apologize for everything that had happened." Another sigh. "And then she placed the spell on us. The gypsy was aware of Master Draco's great… dislike for those beneath him, and claimed to teach him a valuable lesson in humility before more people were hurt. Master Draco was to remain in the body of a werewolf… and we were to keep him company as the objects that we knew best.

"Eventually Master Draco will turn into a true werewolf, as he was on That Night." She sighed again. "And the rest of us will really turn into our respective objects forever."

"What?" Hermione asked, aghast. "Eventually? But there has to be some way to break the spell!" McGonagall had to hide her small smile.

"Let me continue," she said gently and Hermione at once felt bad for interrupting. "We were all suddenly being pulled into the ballroom—all of us. The gypsy had left in another puff of green smoke, but we barely even had time to reflect on what had happened. We were floating in midair, surrounded by green sparks of light and being blown about by a sudden gust of wind. And before any of us knew it, we were what we are now. The change was quick and without pain so none of us knew what was happening until after it had happened. The gypsy also chose one of Draco's most loyal subjects and trapped her in a mirror in his quarters. He can see anything he wants in that mirror, even if it's thousands of miles away." She paused to take a breath. _A mirror in which he can see _anything_? _Hermione added this to her list, as well, worrying her lip. She was going to ask what this girl's name was, but McGonagall continued.

"But as one last parting 'gift,' the gypsy gave us a messenger, someone who could help us communicate with others beyond the forest, which is something that the girl in the mirror cannot do. It was he," McGonagall said with a small smile. "Who helped to bring you here in the first place." Instantly Hermione glanced in the owl's direction.

"Midas?" She asked, turning back to McGonagall. "You were the gypsy's?" The bird nodded, drawing a pattern in the comforter with his wing rather sheepishly.

"But why did you help to bring me here?" She asked him edgily, _very_curious.

"You would've died out in the forest, Hermione," McGonagall cut in smoothly. "You would have frozen in the snow." Hermione nodded slightly and looked out the large window to her left. The snow was still falling and the sun would rise in just less than an hour. _And now I'm frozen in here, instead._

"So how can it be broken?" Hermione asked after a moment's silence. She knew, deep inside, that against her better judgment she desperately wanted to help them… as soon as she found a way to get home, of course. McGonagall merely gave her a small sad and knowing smile.

"The gypsy had said: 'This curse is irreversible.' Only one thing can break it, but what that was, she did not say…" After seeing that Hermione was staring out the window, she gave small warning looks to the girls at the edge of the bed.

"What?" Hermione turned back to McGonagall and couldn't help but sound appalled. "She didn't say?" Mouth open in abomination, Hermione shook her head. "But—there has to be some way to break it! Surely you have already tried?" McGonagall shook her head.

"We'll save the rest of this conversation for tomorrow," She feigned a small yawn, but Hermione followed suit, too tired not to. "I'm afraid I talked much longer than I had wanted to. You must be tired, and you need your rest." At the word _rest_, Hermione gave another wide yawn.

"I _am_tired…" She breathed sleepily.

"Miss Patil, Miss Brown," She nodded to each of them as Midas picked her up and set her down on floor—being more gentle this time. "Miss Granger needs her rest." The girls nodded in agreement, though each of them looked equally disappointed.

Parvati and Lavender returned to their spots against the wall as Hermione took off her shoes.

"Would you like something else to sleep in?" McGonagall asked, indicating Hermione's dirty dress.

"No, thanks." Hermione yawned as she undid the clasp of her cloak around her neck. She dropped it next to her shoes… "I'm too tired to change." She said drowsily.

"Alright." Madam McGonagall told Hermione as she slipped beneath the covers.

"Thank you." Hermione managed to whisper. She closed her eyes.

She could hear McGonagall quietly swishing her way to the door, and her whisper: "Come, Midas. You can visit tomorrow," and then the flap of wings accompanied by the turning of the door handle and its soft thud as it closed in its frame.

Hermione fell asleep to the drone of the many voices in her head. Some sounded like her mother and father, while others sounded uncannily similar to various members of the Weasley family, and Harry. Madam Pince was talking about sword fights while McGonagall- and Mad-Eye-like voices were both telling her stories about a serious betrayal that caused the downfall of an entire kingdom. But the majority of the inquisitive voices sounded like her own:

_Why would Sybill go through such drastic measures just to teach the Prince a lesson? Was he really _that_ terrible? If tonight had been any indication… There has to be a way to break the spell—but what? What about those who left the kingdom? Why didn't they ever say anything about the castle? Did they forget about it, somehow? But it has only been three years… is that another side effect of the curse? Or is Mad-Eye to blame, what with his tall tales? Did he really frighten people off? I can't remember what I was doing three years ago… where was I when this happened? Will I be seeing Mad-Eye here soon? Why is McGonagall a hat? Why am I in such a comfortable bed when I'm a _prisoner_?_

She turned on her side.

_And what about the Prince—how was he going to rule a kingdom when he supposedly hates the people he rules? Is that part of the reason why the people left in the first place? Did they think that he'd rule them unfairly? Did the people know that he hated them? Did he get it from his parents? Did they feel the same way about commoners?_

_How long will I really be stuck here?_

And before she knew it, Hermione was fast asleep.

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Thank you all for reading! I'll be sending e-mails out to personally thank all of you who left me their e-mails! Enjoy the next chapter when it comes out – which will be soon!


	5. An Unhappy Holiday

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**A****uthor's Notes:** Thank you for reviewing. Remember, this was supposed to be part of Chapter 3, but I wanted to post what I already had earlier. This is a little shorter than most chapters, but I hope I don't disappoint in any other way.

HBP IS COMING OUT TOMORROW. ASDLFJKSLDFJKLSDJKFLSKDJF.

Enjoy.

**Author's Notes EDIT:** _7/23/11._ Simple edits!

* * *

**Chapter 5: An Unhappy Holiday**

* * *

Draco leaned his forehead against the door and raised a clenched fist angrily at the girl inside, displaying his sharp claws to the wood.

"Master Draco, I believe it'd be wise to distance yourself from her for awhile." Snape suggested, trying not to rile up his master's nerves any more than they already were. At least, of course, until they were out of the girl's earshot.

"Can you believe this?" He whispered rhetorically, stepping away from the door and stomping down the corridor. Snape waited for his master to continue, holding in a sigh with much difficulty. "This is unbelievable." Draco sneered disgustedly. "Absolutely _unbelievable_."

"I'll tell you what is unbelievable," McGonagall whispered venomously, ignoring Draco's narrowed eyes and his mouth opening to respond. "The way you treated that girl!" McGonagall fumed. _He can be truly immature when he wants to be_.

"She's a _peasant_." Draco hissed. "She's—"

"Our _guest_!" McGonagall interrupted and the look she received from the Prince was indeed a very unpleasant one. "A peasant?" She scoffed. "What did you expect? _Princess Aurora _to show up on your doorstep? This is a normal girl who has probably been living within fifty miles of you your entire life! She's tired and alone! Homesick, without a doubt and didn't mean any harm! She's—"

"—_not _a guest!" Draco spat back at her. He distantly heard a feminine voice back from within the room: _That jerk! _"She's throwing insults at me this very instant!" Draco said nastily and looked back at the door. "I should go back in there right now and—"

"You'll do nothing of the sort!" McGonagall shouted.

"How dare—"

"And she has every right to!" McGonagall threw at him before Draco—or even Snape—had a chance to interject. He knew he'd have his turn with the Prince after awhile; Draco was merely releasing a little steam on McGonagall. Though, he'd like to keep the violence at a minimum nonetheless.

"She's a _prisoner_. And a rather tactless, dirty and stubborn one at that," he said distastefully.

"How are you planning on breaking the spell thinking like _that_?" McGonagall asked, seemingly appalled at his attitude. "You're supposed to be trying to fall love with her — not insulting her!"

"You're already treading on thin ice with me, McGonagall!" Draco warned as he turned a corner. "And besides," He complained. "_She's_ in there yelling at _me_! Have you no respect?"

"_Respect_?" McGonagall nearly screeched. The tip of the hat went pin-straight and shook with violent anger. Midas swooped around to the other side of Snape, using the cauldron as a shield from McGonagall—someone he had previously thought to be safe. Snape sent him one of his infamous "Next-person-who-looks-at-me-will-get-bathroom-detail" looks, and Midas quickly went back to soaring above them all. Draco would be lying if he said that he wasn't surprised at McGonagall's ability to express anger, but he didn't show it as he continued to fume down the corridor.

"Madam McGonagall does prove a very valid point, Master," Snape cut in silkily. "There's no way any of us will get back to normal again if you don't try to make peace with the girl." Draco sighed.

"That'll take forever," he replied.

"We don't _have _forever," McGonagall replied. "We don't have much time at all!" she persisted.

"I know," Draco said dully.

"After tonight—"

"_I know_!" He snapped.

They all stopped, staring at their master expectedly as he came to a halt. Midas silently came down to rest at McGonagall's right. After a few moments of awkward silence and feeling slightly guilty at the sight of Draco's rueful frame, McGonagall announced that she was going to check on the girl to make sure that she was all right.

Midas watched her make it halfway down the corridor before he couldn't take the feeling of Snape's eyes boring into him any longer and turned to face the cauldron. Glancing at the hat and then back at Snape, he waited for the chef to give him an order. Snape nodded at McGonagall. Without needing to be told twice, Midas soared off after McGonagall toward the girl's room.

"We'll discuss this tomorrow, Midas," Draco spoke indifferently to the bird as he left his spot on the floor. The eagle turned around to glance back at his master nervously, before speeding off to catch up with McGonagall.

Snape watched the bird disappear behind a corner and waited in silence for his master to say something.

"What am I going to do, Snape?" Draco whispered. "I tried to find something about her I liked — no, I really _did _try — but I just _can't_." He started walking again. Snape followed. "I mean," His voice suddenly changed from helplessness to dislike. "_Look_ at her." He sneered again and Snape made a mental note that he had to get his master to refrain from doing that. Somehow.

"For instance," Draco continued. "Did you see her reaction to the room?" Draco asked disgustedly. "I didn't even give her a particularly large one, but did you see the look on her face?" A sneer and a scoff. "_Unbelievable_," he repeated. "How am I supposed to fall in love with a girl so unaccustomed to these sorts of things?" He spat, suddenly frustrated and angry again.

"What did you expect her to do, Draco?" Snape asked.

"I don't know—I just didn't expect her to be so surprised or fascinated by the whole thing. If I have to put up with a measly peasant with her head stuck in the clouds for the rest of my life, I swear—"

"Something tells me that you won't have to worry about that," Snape cut in, ignoring Draco's somewhat bothered look at being interrupted. "I think that she'll get used to her new surroundings in time." Draco's shoulders relaxed slightly. "But," Snape continued and Draco arched an eyebrow in response. "As well as it will take time for her to adapt, it will take _patience_ on your part." Snape stopped to turn and face his master with a warning glare.

"What are you looking at me like that for?" Draco asked, sounding offended. "I can be patient."

"And Mr. Longbottom will lead England to glory one day," Snape remarked evenly as Draco had to stop himself from snorting. "But you don't need a lecture on that right now." Snape switched the subject and Draco found himself immensely grateful. "Tell me," He went on. "What do you _really_ think of her?" Draco cast him a disdainful look.

"You can't be serious." He said as he reached a staircase.

"Quite the contrary." Snape answered, struggling to keep up with his master. Draco took two, sometimes three steps at a time and it was often extremely difficult to maintain his master's pace. "Go on."

"_Snape_…" Draco said threateningly, but he knew that his threats had never really had any effect on the chef. The cauldron shot him a glare from four or five steps behind him. Draco sighed.

"I expected a much… _stronger_ reaction when she first saw me," he admitted quietly, reaching the top. "She didn't act very afraid." _I couldn't smell any fear, _he thought, confused. _What kind of idiot wouldn't fear something like me?_

"Which," Snape coughed, reaching the top step of the long staircase. "Is a very fortunate thing for us." Draco waited with his back to Snape and upon hearing him reach the top, he continued walking at his normal pace, ignoring Snape's somewhat labored breathing.

"You could've been more understanding, however," Snape said, bringing up the rather heated conversation he and McGonagall had been "discussing" before. "Was all that coldness really necessary?"

"I told you," Draco cautioned. "I'll handle things on my own terms. She can stay, but only under certain conditions."

"I can't say that forcing her eat in the kitchens was the wisest decision," Snape remarked. "Meals could've been used as a bonding time."

"I don't want to watch her eat," he said simply with a sneer. Snape thought it was rather interesting that he'd dare to say that when it was _he_ who had the atrocious table manners—and difficulty holding normal utensils.

"She doesn't listen," Draco said randomly, changing the subject. "And her walking pace, even after I told her to hurry up, was borderline insolence!" He scowled at the cauldron.

"She was merely tired, Draco." Snape explained, although he had an idea that her fatigue might not have been the _entire_ reason why.

"I don't remember anyone being so defiant in years," Draco complained. "One girl shows up and my castle's in chaos."

"You can hardly call it chaos."

"Oh, I can call it chaos, all right," Draco replied. "There's been plenty of disorder around here since she came." Snape sighed. "Stubborn, uncooperative, headstrong…" Draco rattled each of them off a clawed-finger. "How am I supposed to stand this girl? Let alone —l_ove _her?" He shuddered.

"Draco—"

"And did you see the way she practically jumped right out of her skin when I mentioned her escaping?" Draco chuckled mirthlessly. "She really _was _planning something. A lot sooner that I would've thought, actually," Draco scoffed.

"Draco," Snape began levelly. "What forest animals were you talking about?" He raised a sable brow. "There aren't any creatures in the forest," he stated coolly. "We all know there haven't been any for centuries." Draco nodded.

"What she doesn't know won't hurt her," he sent a warning glance at Snape. "And more importantly, what she doesn't know will keep her from trying to _escape_."

"Not necessarily," Snape commented evenly. "She might want to take the risk of facing supposedly terrible forest demons if it means getting back home." Draco just about choked on the terrible snickering laugh in his throat as he came to another staircase.

"I highly doubt she'd even make it past the Entrance Hall," he told Snape confidently. "A girl like that wouldn't have had much of an education anyway," He went on, a smirk playing at his lips. "Probably not too clever."

"You're not making it any easier for you two to be together," Snape narrowed his eyes, showing his irritation.

Draco returned the glare, suddenly angry with Snape for not showing more sympathy towards his situation. Snape should've been consoling the living daylights out of him by now, agreeing on the unfairness of Draco's dreadful predicament. _But _this _is what I get? _His eyes narrowed further.

"You're no better than McGonagall," Draco scorned, turning around on the steps to glower in his direction. "I'd have thought that _you _out of everyone might've somewhat understood what kind of a position I'm in!"

"You have no idea how far the range of my understanding of your current dilemma really goes," Snape hopped up a few steps. "It's only _you _that doesn't seem to comprehend that your tiniest actions can make all the difference!" Draco clenched his fists. "It's _you _that doesn't quite seem to realize that at some point in your life, _you're going to have to grow up!_" He hissed. Draco snarled, lowering himself to look Snape directly in the eyes and bare his sharp teeth. "It's about time you start trying to look at things differently," he continued, unflinching and unwilling to stand down. "You might be surprised at what you see."

And after a short silence saturated with angry tension, Snape nodded once to his speechless master, mocked a bow, and headed off down the staircase back to the girl's room.

He was somewhat surprised when he did not hear a response from his master on his way to McGonagall and Midas. Draco wasn't one to allow his opponent, so to speak, to have the last word. But then again, Snape found that at the moment he really didn't care.

This was turning out to be a rather long night.

* * *

And with an exhausted sigh and an exasperated comment to Midas, McGonagall sadly knew that she wouldn't be able to fall asleep again.

"And to think this all started because I thought that madman was out there again," she whispered to Midas, careful not to wake the girl on the other side of the door, though somehow she knew that the girl was already dead asleep. Midas nodded without fervor and stretched his wings high over his head, unleashing a large yawn.

"I guess I'd better get a head start on my rounds, then," she announced to Midas, who in all honesty wasn't really paying much attention anymore. Even if McGonagall wasn't planning on trying to salvage some glorious shut-eye, that didn't mean that Midas wasn't and he told her so (with much wing gesticulation) before flying off to head up to his favorite window in the highest tower. With a small nod as he left, McGonagall tried to hold back another yawn and made her way down the corridor, deciding which chore she should do first.

"Minerva," a deep voice called from around the corner. She recognized it as Snape's voice at once, especially since he was one of only two people in the castle who had ever addressed her by her first name. She noted, with some concern and curiosity, that he sounded thoroughly irritated.

"What happened?" She asked as her usual impatience was once again kicked in. Snape sighed, his eyebrows scrunching together in frustration.

"He's going to be difficult," he told her lamely, turning around and walking with her down the corridor.

"Well, we should expect as much," she said, feeling defeated and wearied once again. "It's not as if we really thought he was going to have a breakthrough and change his arrogant ways in one night." They continued down the hallway as another silence crept in on them.

"What did you tell her?" Snape blurted out. "How much information did you give away?"

"You mean," McGonagall started knowingly. "Did I tell her what was going to break the spell?" Snape was silent. "I told her what happened. Everything—only I conveniently excluded _that _little piece of information in our discussion. I mentioned something about Sybill telling us that the curse was irreversible and that we had yet to find something that could remove it."

"How did she take that?" he asked, though still attempting to hide his curiosity by avoiding eye contact.

"She was quite appalled, actually." McGonagall couldn't help but smile. "The girl has a large heart and was quite abhorrent to the whole idea of us never being mortal again."

"Convenient," he commented.

"Quite," she grinned, the brim in the hat curving upwards for the first time in hours.

"And…" Snape clenched and unclenched his teeth thoughtfully. "What are her views on our lovely little ball of royalty, himself?" McGonagall snorted. She was rather embarrassed about her unladylike action when she thought about it later, but at the moment she didn't mind, nor did she notice Snape's rather amused smirk.

"I can only imagine the deep hatred for him that's running through her veins!" She exclaimed. "And what's worse is that she has every right to hate him!"

"I completely agree," Snape said unhappily. "Did you talk to her at all about him?"

"I tried to," McGonagall sighed. "I left little hints, subtle things that I hope she might've picked up on whether she realizes that she did or not." They turned another corner. "But I'm not sure if I got through to her… I'll have to tell Mr. Zabini and Mr. Thomas to get some of that information—she _is_ fond of them, I suppose."

"_Those_ two?" Snape exclaimed incredulously. "Thomas, perhaps, but surely not _Zabini_!"

"Would you prefer Mr. Longbottom?" Snape glared.

"I will choose to ignore that suggestion, for by suggesting it you have now clearly recommended that we never become human again. I am now farther away from mortality than I ever was for just having listened to it." McGonagall sent him a look, but let it slide.

"Well, what's wrong with Mr. Zabini then?" She found herself tremendously curious at this, despite the fact that she had doubts as well.

"_Mr. Zabini_? He'll practically be this girl's guide, her familiar, and you want _him_ to give her the first impression of what we're like? _His _hormonal, adolescent impression… Think about it, McGonagall."

"I _have_," she said, somewhat defensively. "And believe me: I thought about the same things that you did. But Hermione already seems to trust Blaise and Dean… They were the first one she met here… Besides — you and I can't do it because we're going to be too busy."

"What about _their _duties?"

"I can relinquish them of their chores for tomorrow for special royal services," she replied.

"But what about the girls in her room? Wouldn't they be just as suitable for the job?" He suggested, struggling to remember if he had ever bothered to learn their names or not.

"Miss _Patil_ and Miss _Brown_?"

"…never mind."

"You have to admit," she sighed. "Mr. Zabini and Mr. Thomas are the best options."

"But they're practically _animals,_" Snape sneered. "Just remember that when the castle is in ruins and all of us are awaiting our fate as inanimate objects, it'll be _your _fault for appointing such a consequential duty to them."

"You just reminded me of something," she told him, not having paid attention to the last part of his little speech. "What _was _Draco talking about? There aren't any animals in the forest! There haven't been any in years!"

"It's just a little lie of his to keep her from trying to escape," he sighed. "Though his cockiness prevents the idea of her actually being able to leave from forming in his head."

"I'm not surprised. I suspect he'll want us to inform the others of this little lie, then?"

"I'd suspect so," Snape agreed.

"I can take care of the East and South wing if you can take care of the North and West," she suggested.

"Or you could tell Patil and Brown and be done with it. They're quite the gossip mill with the servants, aren't they?" McGonagall chose to ignore that comment.

"North and West for you, it is then. Why, thank you, Severus," He sent a glare in her direction, but McGonagall ignored it.

They then made their way down to the main staircase in comfortable silence, gratefully relishing the lack of noise in the corridors, and knew all too well that within a few hours time, it would be anything but quiet.

But something suddenly occurred to Snape. A thought he couldn't believe he hadn't thought of before.

"Minerva," he said carefully, knowing that the atmosphere around them would change drastically the instant he asked. "What does she know of… _You-Know-Who_?" When she spoke, her voice was crisp and short and no louder than a soft whisper.

"She knows who he is," McGonagall chose her words carefully. "But she does not know his name." She looked to see if he knew what she meant. After searching her eyes for any more hidden meanings, Snape nodded in understanding and went down the large staircase, separating from McGonagall to go take care of his first chore of the day.

McGonagall watched until he reached the bottom, lost in her thoughts. Making a mental list of the things she needed to do, McGonagall turned around headed towards the East wing again to tell Blaise and Dean her plans. With much dread and an equal amount of exhaustion, she knew that it was going to be another long, long day.

* * *

She could hear him stomping to his room from all the way over in the next corridor. After her initial excitement died down, it was replaced by annoyance. She'd heard what was supposedly going on in the castle—gotten wind of the rumors. And usually rumors were good to hear; gossip kept her entertained.

Rumors such as questions regarding whether or not Snape used to sleep in red, frilly pajamas, or if Blaise had had his way with Patil or Brown yet—two mindless chatterboxes. It wasn't as if she was giving up on her favorite pastime; it was just that there was one rumor in particular that she _didn't_ like. And what was worse was the fact that she had no idea whether it was true.

This had _never _happened before.

She could see _everything _that went on in the castle, after all. Though trapped in this godforsaken mirror, she could see _everything _from the cobwebbed corners of the towers in the far corners of the countryside to the busy streets in London—anything she wanted to see.

_Except _for this.

But as if that wasn't torture enough, Draco, her last chance at finding out the verity of this rumor, had the nerve not to even come check on her! And she had stayed up the whole night worrying about him and waiting for him to come! Even if it _was_, well, a holiday that none of them had been looking forward to, he should've remembered her trapped up in his room behind her glass. He should've had the decency to think of her suffering as well! She fumed silently from behind her glass wall, impatiently waiting for him to stomp down the rest of the corridor.

His entrance was more dramatic than usual — _or necessary,_ she thought — and the door was slammed shut so hard that it was left with only one remaining hinge to connect it to the wall. She could barely make out some of his infamous, mumbled cursing and noticed that his ears were pinned back to his head angrily. She'd be lying if she said that she wasn't scared, even though she knew that he would never harm her.

"Draco, what's going on?" She demanded to know. "Rumors have been spreading around the castle like mad! Neville stopped by around one or so to tell me, but he couldn't stay long enough to explain—what he's saying is complete bollocks, but the entire castle believes it —"

"_Pansy,_" Draco said through clenched teeth, clutching his head in an attempt to dull the annoying throb of his headache, inadvertently looking very much like he did That Night. "If you've got a point, then _spit it out._" Pansy scoffed indignantly. _The nerve of him._

"No one tells me anything anymore!" She complained, throwing her hands up in the air. "I'm stuck up here by myself for hours at a time and when something happens, no one has the decency to come up and talk to me about it!" She crossed her arms, strands of her blonde hair falling from their place behind her ears. "And what's worse is—"

"Oh, like _you've_ got a lot to complain about!" Draco threw his arms to his side as he turned to glare at Pansy. She had been about to tell him what she couldn't see, but on thinking it over, she decided that she might not want to share that detail even if he were to ask her flat out… That would be showing him a weakness, and Draco hated weaknesses more than anything. Well, _almost _anything.

"Come off it, Pans," he sighed, making his way over to what could only be a bed, despite the fact that it looked absolutely nothing like one. Pansy's annoyance started to slowly drift away. Hugging herself as if she were cold and feeling ashamed for not noticing earlier just how upset he was, Pansy sorted her thoughts.

"I'm sorry, Draco," she spoke as softly as she could. Draco collapsed onto his nest and rested his elbows on his knees, staring at the dirty floor. There was a slight silence as Pansy bit her lip thoughtfully, debating whether or not to ask him the question that had been playing through her mind for the last couple of hours. Finally, her curiosity won her over.

"When Neville came by," she started out quietly, looking at something to the right and knowing that he had no problem hearing her. "And told me what was going on, I didn't believe him." She looked up at him, but he was still staring at the floor. She looked at the floor as well. "He told me that there was—" She glanced back up at him to find him massaging his temples with his paw. "That there was a _girl_ in the castle." With a deep breath, Pansy waited for a reaction of some sort. She was very disappointed when she received none. "Is it true, Draco?" She asked more quietly than before, afraid to hear the answer. He sighed again.

"It is," he replied dully. Pansy closed her eyes, and was shocked to find that she could almost feel tears already beginning to form. But she was stronger than that, and held them back, preventing them from coming before they even had a chance. Instead, she nodded slowly, as the realization sank in.

"What's her name?" Pansy asked, at a loss for anything better to say. Well, there was that, and the idea that if she had this girl's name, she might be able to finally find her. Or at least, she was hoping so anyway.

"Hell, if I know," Draco scoffed and continued to rub his eyes. Pansy watched in concerned silence, pondering what to do next. Draco was clearly not satisfied with the girl fate had brought him.

And even though she knew that it was probably not a good thing—for her or for the other members of the castle, Pansy couldn't be happier at the fact.

"How bad is it?" Pansy asked at last, unable to quench her curiosity. Draco sighed and lay back down on his bed, staring dully at the ceiling.

"Bad," he said disdainfully. "_Unbelievably _bad." He crossed his arms over his chest. "And I even got McGonagall and Snape ragging on me about the whole thing. The whole castle's turned into a bunch of disrespectful idiots, the whole lot of them."

"_Snape_?_" _Draco nodded. "But I thought you and Snape were… well…"

"I thought so too," he said angrily. Sitting up and throwing an arm out into the air to prove his frustration, he continued. "Out of everyone, I would've thought that _he _would've been a bit more sympathetic. But _no, _the big "Mentor-Snape" kicks in at the most inconvenient time and he starts chastising me just as badly as McGonagall! If not worse!"

_What about me? _Pansy thought angrily, unable to stop feeling hurt at his tactless words. _You didn't think that I'd understand? _Without fully realizing what she was doing, she began to glare at him. _I hate this predicament just as much as you do! If not, _more. _Where do you get off thinking that I wouldn't be here to hate this with you?_

"— just rattling off in his stupid lecture about how _I _need some sense knocked into me." Draco shook his head angrily and looked to Pansy. "What kind of bollocks is that? _I'm _the _only _one with some sense in me!" Pansy sighed angrily and continued to go on glaring, unnoticed to Draco and his terrible mood. "This girl —" Draco stopped, his arms remaining in midair. Pansy unconsciously stopped scowling at him, waiting for whatever description he was going to give this girl.

But Draco seemed at a loss for words. What words does one use to express the utmost loathing and the ultimate feelings of disgust? And feeling even more frustrated at his sudden inarticulateness, Draco threw his hands up in defeat, fell back down on his bed and released such a growl of frustration and anger that Pansy jumped.

"_That _bad?" Pansy asked sympathetically, secretly enjoying the fact that Draco wanted nothing to do with this girl. Draco turned to glare at her.

"_Yes, _it's _that bad._" His eyes narrowed. "She's a bloody _commoner_! How can it _not _be bad?" His expression softened a bit and Pansy wished more than anything that she could've been out of the mirror at that moment. Pansy sighed sadly. She opened her mouth to say something, but then closed it quickly, for she realized that she had nothing to really say.

Pansy couldn't say anything that would possibly cause Draco to think twice about the girl — she wouldn't be able to live knowing that she'd been the one to finally get Draco to see some of the possibly good things about her. But she needed Draco to see her as comforting and sympathetic and she didn't know how to be either of those things very well, let alone comfort him about something for which _she _might need comfort, too. But luckily, Pansy's speechlessness went unnoticed as Draco began to complain again.

"I can't take this, Pans," Draco closed his eyes and held his head. Pansy gingerly touched the glass in front of her and tried to simply will it to go away. She was unsuccessful. "I even went so low as to try to look for things in her that weren't so bad," Draco sneered. Pansy looked up at him. She swallowed.

"Did you… find anything?" She asked hesitantly.

"No," he sighed. "I mean, have you even taken a look at her?" Pansy didn't respond, but apparently, Draco hadn't really wanted her to because he went on without giving her much of a pause. "She's not very pretty for one, so it'll be a bloody miracle if I feel any physical attraction to her at all," he commented, not feeling the slightest bit guilty; it was the truth after all. Pansy tried to hide her wicked grin. She wasn't very successful at that either.

_What would she look like hanging on my arm when I'm mortal again?_ He thought with disapproval. _Especially compared to the beautiful princesses who had been _throwing _themselves in line for my attention..._ _At least I'd still be the one getting all of the attention, in the end._ But after feeling smug for a millisecond, Draco remembered what he looked like now, and his scowl returned.

"And who knows what kind of schooling she's had? She could be the dumbest girl in her whole village! I mean, what kind of an _idiot _would walk through that pitch-black forest during the middle of the night? The girl's insane!" He pounded his fist into a torn-up pillow next to him. "Ha!" He shouted mirthlessly. "I'd probably be better off marrying that madman!"

"Decisions, decisions..." Pansy interrupted sardonically with a small smile, speaking at last. But Pansy wasn't naïve, and didn't let down her guard just yet; she knew that Draco, no matter how stubborn or how much he refused to admit it, was really lonely. His feelings could change drastically—especially with the help of an entire castle attempting to play matchmaker. _Even if he doesn't realize it yet, _she thought, _he needs someone. _She swallowed. _And for the longest time, _I _was the one he needed._

"You're telling me," he said darkly. "I'm sick and tired of this girl _already_."

"I'm sorry, Draco," she told him.

"No, you're not," he said scornfully. "You're just saying that because I complained about the other lot—what do _you_ have to be sorry about? You get a free ride back to mortality."

"Don't you dare go putting words in my mouth, Draco Malfoy," she whispered fiercely. "You _know _none of that's true—and if you _don't, _then I'm not sure you _deserve_ to be human again." Draco leapt up from his bed and vaulted himself in her direction with a snarl, stopping only a few centimeters away from the glass. Pansy tried not to jump—she knew he wouldn't hurt her, but she ended up flinching a little anyway. Draco tried to keep up his sneer, but it soon faded away. Draco was left staring intently at Pansy and Pansy doing the same in return.

"Then what do you suggest I do, oh, _wise one_?" He stepped back from the mirror and crossed his arms over his chest.

_Draco never apologizes_.

At first she gave him a look for his sarcasm, even though she was glad that she had gotten him to start acting like his usual self again. Pansy bit her lip, taking a rather long moment to figure out what to say.

"What? No advice from—"

"I think," she cut in, hoping that what she was about to say was safe. "That you should just… go with the flow," she finished lamely, feeling extremely unsatisfied with her statement.

"Go with the flow?" Draco echoed slowly, a brow rising questioningly. "Those are your words of wisdom?"

"_Yes_, they are," she threw back at him defensively. "You should bear them in mind too." she sighed.

"Do you have any idea of what you're asking?" He went to his curtained balcony and pulled back one of the ratty blankets to peak out through the glass window. "_Go with the flow? _And what if I don't like where I'm going? What's your insightful answer to that?" He turned back around to face her, dropping the sheet and cutting off the moonlight from flowing in.

"Well, what do you want me to say, Draco?" She spat angrily. "You seem to have something you're waiting to hear." _Why don't you just go ahead and let me on in this little thing that you so desperately want to hear so we could make both of our lives a hell of a lot easier? _For a moment, all Draco did was look at her.

"You know what, Pansy?" He asked calmly, shaking his head and turning back to pull open the curtain again. "Just —" He grabbed the handle to the glass doorway, which hadn't been used in years and cracked it open. The sun was just beginning to rise. A small gust of wind came inside, blowing in a small pile of snow and causing Draco's next words to come out in visible icy wisps. "Just forget it."

And with that, Draco opened the door, making sure that the curtain was still hanging over the window. He stepped out onto the snowy balcony, leaving Pansy speechless and upset all over again with the sound of the icy glass window closing in its frame.

With a defeated sigh, Pansy turned away from the closed door and looked for something to distract her. Unfortunately, the first thing she saw wasn't much of help. Sighing again, she leaned her head against the glass, and continued to stare at his mangled portrait.

It was sad to think about everything Draco had gone through. It was even more tragic to think about how he had gone through the majority of it alone. _But that's not really true, _She thought. _He always had me._ She closed her eyes. _And now he'll have _her.

"But he hates her," she quietly whispered to herself, making sure that it was far too low for even Draco to understand her. _He hates her because she's a commoner… But I'm a servant —I'm practically a commoner myself. _She shook her head to clear the thought. _But he's known me for years. I've watched him experience terrible and wonderful things that she'll _never _be able to share with him. It's the castle that needs her, not Draco. Draco has me._

But a new thought occurred to her as she looked at the portrait again. Slate eyes stared back at her coldly.

_But will he come to know her as he knows me? _She swallowed. _What if she starts to know him better than I do? _She laughed at her own stupidity. In the first place, it would take a lot for him to let anyone—let alone this girl—get to know the real him. And secondly… _I know Draco better than anyone._

The eyes were still staring at her.

"Happy seventeenth birthday, Draco."


	6. The Contents of a Traitor's Diary

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes: **CANON DRACO IS A TOTALLY MISUNDERSTOOD AND COMPLEX CHARACTER… I love him so.

It's taken me a little while to get back into the swing of fanfiction, after having finished HBP on the day that it was released and obsessing over canon for the following 96 hours. But now it is time to continue on with this fic!

And canon!Blaise… Nyah. My portrayal of Blaise was a long shot to begin with, but he is now so far out of character that there's hardly any connection! I will slowly incorporate canon!Blaise characteristics (basically just the physical ones) into my!Blaise, but not all at once. Psh. White candle - GO ME. Likewise, I also apologize for what is now a very, very OOC Madam Pince, although my defense is that when I wrote her she didn't have much of a character.

Enjoy.

**Author's Notes EDIT:** _7/24/11._ Edited!

* * *

**Chapter 6: The Contents of a Traitor's Diary**_  
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* * *

_That sun is bloody annoying, _Hermione thought, desperately trying to hide from the persistent sunlight. After discovering that neither turning on her side nor shoving her head between one of the many layers of pillows would shelter from the first hazy rays of warmth, she decided that it may be time to get up and close her tattered old curtains. _I'm going to have to replace them soon, _she noted mentally.

But when she opened her eyes, she realized that the ceiling above her was most definitely _not _her ceiling. Similarly, the curtains hanging over a window also did not belong to her, nor did the furniture against the unfamiliar walls that surrounded her. She abruptly sat up in the bed that she didn't possess and her eyes darted around anxiously, trying to find anything that would give her a clue as to whom the items really belonged.

"_Where—?_"

But as soon as the word had escaped her lips, her mind was flooded with images of the previous night's events, and she plopped back down onto the soft, linen sheets with a sigh. It hadn't been a dream, after all, had it?

Before she could feel herself burst into a panic, Logical Hermione returned, and she attempted to find a silver lining. _If I weren't here at the castle, I could've been a corpse out there in the snow… That sounds like a sufficient upside_. Hermione ignored the voice that told her that instead of being at the castle, she could have also been at her _house_.

_They probably wouldn't have ever found my body, which means that I probably would not have had a proper burial. No one would know what really had happened… And everyone would've driven themselves crazy. Especially Ron and Harry, _she thought with a small sigh_. But isn't that what's going to happen now? I'm supposed to be stuck here for the rest of my captivated life—I'm just as good as dead._

So much for her silver lining.

_I have to get out of here._

She closed her eyes and began to brainstorm. One cliché theory included the method of tying her sheets into a long rope and climbing down from her window, but that plan was quickly thrown to the side after she'd had a glimpse of how high up she'd been last night. She turned her head to face the large window and squinted to protect her eyes from the glare. She was practically as high as the top of the trees… There's no way she had enough material to make any kind of rope long enough to reach the ground.

She stared at the ceiling again. Speaking of the sheets, they were even softer than they had looked—and they had looked very soft to begin with_. I'll think of something as soon as I get up, _she promised herself. But in the meantime, she decided that if she had any chance of making it out of imprisonment, she needed to be well rested. And this comforter was just the perfect comrade for such a mission.

Hermione hastily got out of the bed to close the thick curtains, and proceeded to jump back into the sheets like she used to do when she was little and still lived in the city with her parents. Sighing softly, Hermione pulled the soft covers up to her chin and slid her body down so that she had practically melted herself into the mattress. Shutting her eyes with a sleepy smile, she prepared herself for another gratifying hour of sleep. Or three.

She was quite comfortable and halfway to unconsciousness when she vaguely heard some noise off to her left. Her brows furrowed slightly at the disturbance, but her stubbornness didn't allow her to think much of it when her brain was so looking forward to the _restful_ calm before the planning brainstorm.

"_Good_ morning, sunshine!"

Her eyes snapped open and, with a gasp, her hands flew to her head to scrape back the clumps of dirty hair from her face so she could properly see who had fatally interrupted her beating heart. Her face set in a disgusted grimace as she held up a rather muddy-looking wad of hair, and thought that a bath might also be a good idea. She glanced through blurry eyes at the sheets that she had adored so much, and frowned guiltily at the grime that she had left embedded in the threads in her exhaustion.

"How'd you sleep?" A second voice asked.

"Mm," Hermione grumbled incoherently, trying to get her mouth to form actual words again. She was in the middle of figuring out how to get: 'I wouldn't know, considering you'd woken me up' from her brain to her mouth in that particular order when the first voice started bouncing around the bed. She couldn't ever remember being this grumpy in the morning before. Perhaps her incaraceration had something to do with that.

"I'm _bursting _with excitement, Dean!" The first voice, which Hermione—still groggy and incoherent—somehow miraculously decided was not Dean due to the fact that she hoped people in this castle did not talk in the third person. _Though that wouldn't be the strangest thing around here, would it? _ "Just overflowing with it! I think I'm going to _burst_!"

"Well, if you're going to do so, please do it without delay," the second voice—which Hermione had now associated with Dean—said coldly, although there was underlying amusement in his tone. "I really can't take much more of you and it's barely even lunch time."

"Oh, come off it. You're just jealous, you know," The first voice said. Hermione, who had finally left her foggy stage of post-sleep, opened her eyes with a yawn to see none other than Blaise, the candlestick jumping around on her fluffy comforter.

"Of _what?_" Asked Dean from the other side of her legs, looking annoyed and oddly entertained all at once.

"Of my ability to express my thoughts and emotions in such a charming and lovable way," he responded. "Isn't it charming and lovable?" He asked Hermione, who was caught completely off guard.

"Uh, well—"

"Of course, it is, milady," Blaise interrupted. "I told you so."

"That's _cheating_—"

"Well, Hermione," Blaise cut in smoothly and shuffled his way up to a pillow next to her head. "I suggest that we get a move on, then. You've got a busy day ahead of you and I'd imagine that you'd fancy a bath before you plunge into the castle."

"We're sorry we don't have any breakfast—er, brunch." Dean apologised. "But all of us have learned long ago that concealing food in these forms doesn't work out very well… And the master would know if you weren't eating in the kitchen." He stared at the quilt sheepishly.

"Oh," Hermione said, sitting up. "That's all right. I had forgotten about my appetite, to be perfectly honest with you." She scratched her head absent-mindedly and pulled her finger back to examine it.

_Ugh. _She thought with another grimace. _I really, really need a bath._

"I wouldn't mind taking a bath first," Hermione said pulling on a strand of hair. "If you don't mind," she added on.

"Ah, of course! Be our guest!" Blaise called out and jumped from a pillow to her nightstand. From there, with a giant leap, he made it to a waist-high mahogany chest and continued along the top until he reached the door to the bathroom. He jumped on the handle and pushing it down with his weight, he opened the door with ease.

"_Show off_," Dean muttered.

"Oh," Hermione's eyebrows rose. "Thank you."

"Anytime," he replied with a bow. "Enjoy your bath, milady," he told her as she slipped off the covers and stood. "We'd run the water for you, but…" He wiggled, and Hermione stared, transfixed. "No hands."

"Everything you'll need is already in there," said Dean. "But if you need anything, Lavender and Parvati will be right out here for you."

"Where are they?" Hermione asked, stretching and looking around the room.

"The just went down the fall for a few moments to catch up on a few things with the other servants, but they'll be back soon," Dean assured her, making his way to the door.

"As will we!" Blaise said, following Dean. "Take your time—no need to rush!"

"See you in a bit, Miss Granger!"

"Hermione," she insisted, offering a perplexed smile.

"Right. See you in a bit then, Hermione," said Dean as he and Blaise exited the room.

Hermione gave a small wave of her fingers as they left, before she tried to rub away the remaining tiredness in her eyes. With one last yawn and a stretch, Hermione started for the bathroom.

Her footsteps were silent on the floor and were eerily quiet as she walked through the room. Not a single noise from the corridor or the sound of a bird outside. Absolutely nothing… until a particular floorboard gave way under her feet, creaking loudly and causing Hermione to jump back in surprise. She looked down at the floorboard, testing it out with her foot again and making a mental note to avoid that floorboard in the future.

And Hermione enjoyed the best bath she could ever have imagined. The bathroom was nearly half the size of her bedroom—which was extremely large to begin with, and was just as fine and deluxe as the room, if not _more_ lavish.

But Hermione didn't stop to admire it for very long because the tub looked more appealing than anything else. She spent a luxurious half-hour there, soaking and soothing the sore muscles that the cozy mattress could not even hope to ease. Then she spent a rather stressful amount of time washing her hair, which rivaled her in her own stubbornness. After much grunting and many strands of hair lost—thanks to a brush that had been left on the counter, Hermione dried off with a fluffy, white. She left the bathroom wearing a comfortable white bathrobe, feeling refreshed and rejuvenated, although she wasn't exactly satisfied with her hair. Then again, she never was.

"She's back!" She heard Blaise exclaim as she stepped through the door. She was surprised to find them already there, and questioned how long she had been in the tub. After taking a step out of the bathroom she realized that she had left her clothes in the bathroom. She was about to go back and retrieve them from the counter before things could be considered _improper_, when she noticed with some dismay that her wardrobe and dresser had awakened.

_Oh, dear._

"Out you go!" Lavender said as she trailed after Dean. "Shoo!"

"We'll see you later, Blaise!" Parvati called as the two objects stood in the doorway. "Don't be a stranger!"

"We'll be back, Hermione… Again!" Blaise nodded before he and Dean set off down the corridor and the door shut.

"_Wait_—"

"Now," Parvati and Lavender simultaneously turned around to face her, sending her more scrutinizing gazes than they had last night. "I believe we have some work to do."

"I agree," Lavender said with what Hermione could only classify as a smirk.

An _evil _smirk.

"Ladies," Hermione held up a negotiating hand, the other clasping the bathrobe around her tightly. She took a step backwards toward the bathroom as her furniture closed in on her. _If I can just make it to the room and lock the door… _"I appreciate your enthusiasm, but I'm sure that my clothes will be just fine with a good wash—"

"Oh, nonsense, Hermione!" Lavender laughed, but it was one of the terrible kinds that usually only girls half Hermione's age could manage to emit from their throat; the sound of which Hermione found she more often than not disliked immensely. "That dress is practically in tatters!"

"You're our guest!" Parvati told her cheerfully, getting dangerously close when Hermione was still a hefty two meters away from the door. "You deserve the best that we have to offer—"

"And we have _the _best!" Lavender told her proudly.

"Ah, but you see, I got the impression that I was a prisoner rather than a _guest _from your master last night, so I think it would really be a bad—"

"The dark green one?" Parvati asked with a small giggle. Hermione still found it excruciatingly difficult not to roll her eyes.

"The dark green one," Lavender agreed. "Well, Hermione—"

And just as Hermione thought she was going to make it, Lavender and Parvati took her by her arms with their wooden drawers and cabinet doors, leading her to the center of the room and away from her marbled sanctuary just a few mere meters away. Hermione looked back forlornly over her shoulder at the bathroom as she let herself be dragged to her bed.

"Now," Parvati opened her doors. "Your dress." She pulled out the dark green dress that she had shown Hermione the night before and set it in her lap, careful not to get it wrinkled. "And here are some matching shoes." She pulled them out of a lower compartment below the dress rack. "You change while Lavender and I discuss what to do with your hair."

"But, really—"

"Hurry up!" Lavender ordered. "Blaise and Dean will be back soon to pick you up — go!"

And as Lavender and Parvati went into the bathroom to plot whatever terrible schemes concerning her hair they were plotting, Hermione extended the dress out in front of her. Looking it over doubtfully, she sighed and began to change.

She was just finishing as Parvati and Lavender came out of the bathroom again, holding hairbrushes and combs and giggling madly at something Hermione couldn't hear, but had the sneaking suspicion that she really wouldn't want to know.

"Ooh! Doesn't that dress look nice?" Parvati chirped, smiling proudly. "I love that dress!"

"So do I," Lavender agreed. "You see how the bottom is sewed, like that? Creative _and_ practical!"

"I think this red dress in here has a similar pattern, actually." Parvati opened a door and began to search for said dress and Lavender began to help.

"Oh, here it is!"

Hermione gave a small cough, but it went unnoticed. She sighed and began to tap her bare foot on the wooden floor, which was inaudible to the others as well. She crossed her arms impatiently and waited, but it seemed that Lavender and Parvati had forgotten all about Hermione, for they were much too busy discussing the many different kinds of dresses in Parvati's compartment.

Hermione sat on the bed, not really worrying too much if her dress got a little wrinkled, and put on her matching shoes. Much to Hermione's surprise and luck, the shoes fit. Shoes and dress on and ready for whatever came next, Hermione held her hands in her lap and waited.

And waited.

The never-ending mindless chatter of the girls in the background was driving Hermione raving mad and she thought that if she didn't get out of the room soon, she was going to _explode_.

She began to look at the room in the daylight, thinking that it looked even more wonderful with a little illumination. Hermione lazily wondered if the two girls were best friends. _Most likely_, she thought, _they sure act like it. _But then she thought that they might just act this way around everyone.

With a twisted feeling in the pit of her stomach, she was suddenly reminded of Ginny, Harry and Ron. Her own best friends.

During her third or fourth inspection of the room, Hermione stood up and slowly walked to the door. She glanced back at her furniture, noting that they were completely oblivious. With some insane spurt of giddy excitement and a rush of adrenaline, Hermione quietly stepped towards the door and pushed down the handle. Stealing one more glance back at the preoccupied girls across the room, Hermione pulled the door open just enough to slide through and closed the door as gently as she could.

Without hesitation, Hermione hastily went down the corridor, wondering just how long the girls would take to notice that she was gone. _If I could just get to the Entrance Hall, I might be able to start laying some groundwork for my plan_. She was pondering the maximum length of a conversation about dresses when she heard voices around the corner and instantly pressed her back up against the stone wall, quieting her breathing so as not to draw attention to herself, and waited for the voices to pass. She couldn't remember if the Prince required supervision for her when she was out of her room, now that she thought of it…

"This is ridiculous," she muttered angrily under her breath before the voices could get too close. Flattening herself against the wall as much as she could, she closed her eyes and tried to listen to the conversation around the corner.

"How am I supposed to know, you bloody wanker?" came an entirely ruffled-sounding voice. "How, I ask. _How_?"

"Dean," came another voice, this one exasperated and condescending. "You have _connections, _mate. You're supposed to know these things!"

"_Funny_, I didn't see that anywhere in the job description." A pause. "What's _your _job, then?"

"To thoroughly ravage and/or take advantage of every attractive and able female in the castle for my own personal benefit."

"Of course. _Ha,_" Dean scoffed lightly. "Well, don't bother asking me for a letter of recommendation of your character should you ever choose to seek new employment. You know. In a _candle shop_."

"Oh, har, har," Blaise mocked. "Honestly, though. What would you classify a job like mine as?" Blaise asked curiously.

"Male prostitution."

With a sigh of relief and a small laugh of amusement, Hermione stepped away from the wall, blushing slightly, and continued around the corner.

"Are you implying something, Dean?" Blaise asked accusingly.

"Possibly," Dean answered simply. "Hullo, Hermione," he said, spotting Hermione coming around the corner.

"Good morning," she smiled.

"Hello," Blaise said quickly. "How much of that did you hear?"

"Quite a bit, actually," she answered truthfully.

"We were just discussing Blaise's—"

"I would just like to take this moment to announce that under no circumstances would I ever indulge in questionable activities for money," Blaise interrupted. Hermione quirked an eyebrow inquisitively. Dean stared at him doubtfully. "Unless, of course, it was a rather large sum of money," he said as an afterthought. Dean rolled his eyes. "Or if I was promised a suitable position of power in some tropical city where I was forced to enjoy alcoholic beverages for hours on end. Or if—"

"Point taken." Dean said loudly and turned to Hermione. "Would you like a tour? We could sneak you into the kitchens for some breakfast."

"But I haven't—"

"Yes, please."

"You, Dean, are insufferable," he pouted. "Isn't he insufferable?" he asked Hermione.

"And yet you somehow manage to tolerate me anyway." Dean answered for her. "Lucky me."

"Quit your whining, mate," Blaise chirped, all ill attitude toward the paintbrush forgotten. "We've got a castle to present!" He turned around, Dean and Hermione in tow and bounced off toward some unknown destination. "And my dear lady, I hope I haven't made a negative impression on you."

"Er—"

"Splendid! Come along then, Hermione!" He turned to smile at her from his location far up ahead.

"Coming," Hermione called, surprised at his sudden ability to move so fast.

"We'll start with our bachelor pad…"

* * *

It was a perfect morning.

The melodic singing of the birds and the creative formations of the clouds followed a breathtaking sunrise. Dobby woke up with the feeling that he was going bake his best loaves of bread that he had done all week, and the blacksmith just knew that his profits were going to be twice as much as the previous month.

It was the perfect morning, the Weasleys agreed. Mrs. Weasley, who had been especially frantic the day before, calmly prepared for the upcoming celebration of the evening, and hummed her favorite tune while cleaning out the rooms for the sons who were returning home. Mr. Weasley took a morning stroll around town before coming home to read the paper, and Fred and George had naturally slept in.

But something had definitely gone wrong somewhere in between the perfect morning and the present, Ron knew for sure, because things certainly weren't perfect anymore.

"_Where _is she?" He asked, for what was surely the seventeenth time in the last hour alone.

"She's probably just a little busy," said Harry, making an atrocious attempt to sound comforting. "Or walking slowly." Ron gave him a skeptical look.

"…walking slowly?" He echoed.

"Well," Harry rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sure." With a groan, Ron let his head connect with the picnic table. Harry sighed from his right.

"This is _Hermione_," Ron said despairingly. "She's _never _late."

"Oh, come off it, Ron," Percy cut in from behind as he came to sit down at Ron's left. "Stop worrying before you have an epileptic fit. She'll probably be here anytime now."

"Shut up, Percy." Ron glared, bringing his forehead away from the tabletop. "That's what everyone said an hour ago." He paused to scowl. "And an hour before that."

"Well, I'm saying it again," Percy took a sip from the cup he was holding. "Honestly, Ron, you're going to give yourself a hernia over this."

"Sod off, Percy."

"Well, then," Percy replied indignantly, tipping his noise to the sky and standing up from the picnic table bench to join Bill and Kingsley Shacklebolt in a conversation elsewhere. Ron ran his hands through his hair with another sigh.

"If you're really that worried, Ron, we could just go over there—"

"She's not here yet?" Came Ginny's voice as she sat down on Harry's right.

"Sod off, Ginny."

"Touchy," she commented, casting a questioning glance at Harry, who in turn gave her a shrug. "Calm down, Ron. There has to be some reason why she's taking so long."

"Yeah, there has to be something," said George with a smirk, arriving at the table across from the others.

"Didn't scare her off, now did you, Ronnikins?" Fred added, taking a seat next to his twin. "Love proposals can be quite intimidating when they're not done properly, you know." Ron's ears went redder than his hair.

"_How _did—"

"Or when the recipient is completely off guard."

"_Where_—"

"Or when the person proposing is a completely incompetent idiot with red hair."

"HOW'D YOU TWO FIND OUT?" Ron all but shouted, his face matching his ears and hair. Harry watched on a little sympathetically, while Ginny ate a pear that had been in a bowl on the table. He rounded on Harry and Ginny, ready to interrogate, but the looks on their faces looked too sincerely clueless and innocent for him to bother.

"Careful, Ronald, wouldn't want to scare Hermione away with that tone of yours, now would you?" George said tauntingly, plucking a green apple from the basket in front of him and taking a bite.

"I swear, if you tell anyone else—"

"Oh, please, dear Ronnikins," said Fred, taking an apple as well. "We wouldn't dream of interfering with your, uh… what you'd call your love life. Unrequited love is always a bit tricky, isn't it?" Ron opened and closed his mouth many times, his ears burning pink. Feeling tired and somewhat hopeless, Ron slouched down and grudgingly repeated his question.

"How'd you hear about it?" He asked with a menacing glare, though his tone had lost most of its venom.

"A little birdie told us," Fred replied.

"I'm serious," Ron continued to glare.

"So are we."

"C'mon," Ron grumbled. "You guys haven't seen me in months—is this really how you want to treat me?"

"Sorry, Ronald," George said in between bites. "We must make up for lost time."

"You'd think he'd have learned what to expect after seventeen years, but no," Fred told Harry. "Got an awfully thick head, that one." He pointed his thumb at a seething Ron. "That can't be too attractive."

"Why, you—"

"Ronald Weasley, if I see your fingers making that hand gesture again, you may just lose them," Mrs. Weasley warned, approaching the picnic table. Ron put down his hand, another scowl creeping across his face.

"How are we all doing?" Mrs. Weasley asked, standing at the end of the table and looking at everyone individually. Her brow furrowed when she counted so few at the table. "Where's Hermione?"

"She's not here yet, mum," Fred told his mother, a bit too cheerfully, as Ron glowered.

"No?" she cast a worried glance at Ron, who was getting more indignant by the second. "Oh, well then—no need to worry, I'm sure," though she looked at Ron worriedly, and his were returning to its abnormal pinkish tint. "I'm sure it had nothing to do with what you said yesterday—"

"_You _know?" Ron asked, horrified. "Does _everyone _know?" Fred and George sniggered openly.

"Molly!" Mr. Weasley called from the backdoor of the house. "Where's the pepper?"

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Weasley sighed and turned to her husband. "I'll be right there, Arthur!" With one last sympathetic glance to an extremely embarrassed Ron and a small pat on his shoulder, Mrs. Weasley ran to the backdoor, shouting to Arthur about the blasted pepper and its ever-changing location.

"I love how everything about my life is made public—does Shacklebolt know yet? Maybe we should all tell Dobby and Tonks how I was rejected too!" A thick layer of sarcasm coated his tone. "Why not fill them in on the details?" Ron glared at the twins. "In fact, why don't we just publish my whole conversation in the paper? That'd solve everything."

"What a wonderful idea," said George.

"Honestly, Ron," Fred said more seriously. "You should know better than to try to keep secrets in Little Whinging."

"And yes, careful, Ron," George added. "Your face is going to get stuck like that if you keep scowling so much." He smirked as stood up from the table. Fred, who was sporting a smirk of his own, followed suit.

"Just ignore them, Ron," Ginny said, finishing her pear. "You know your reactions only incite them further."

"Nice to know that my family gets its entertainment out of my misery," Ron grumbled, resting his head on his arms.

"I still think we should go see her, you know, or even meet her on the way," Harry said, looking at a deflated Ron. "If she's still busy at the house, then we can help her out and get her here sooner." Ron groaned.

"This just figures," He continued to scowl. "This kind of stuff always happens to me."

"Oh, stop complaining, Ron," Ginny said, mildly irritated. "Just walk down with us so you'll see that there's nothing wrong and you can stop worrying so much." She stood up, followed by Harry and a reluctant Ron.

"Yeah," Harry told him, heading for the gate to the front yard. "I'm sure everything's fine."

* * *

"And here we have what we like to call the Main Staircase!" Blaise gestured to the large staircase that Hermione used first the night before. "Because… it's the main staircase, and it's large…"

"Thank you for that," said Dean dryly.

"Quite welcome," Blaise said cheerfully. "Although you should know that it's interchangeable with the _Grand _Staircase, as well… a little more pompous, that one. And to the left we have the entrance to the kitchens, although you can't really see it unless you're looking for it." As they went down the steps, Hermione looked to where where Blaise was pointing. "See? That door, right there. The one next to the picture of the huge green pear." Hermione didn't have much trouble finding it. "We have another kitchen, but we don't use that as much anymore. It's a lot bigger than the one we use now, and… well, we don't really get the company that we used to," Blaise shrugged. "No need to use such large one, right?" Dean interrupted before she had a chance to respond.

"Sir Snape's the main chef," Dean explained. "Great talent, that man, though he _is_ a bit rough around the—"

"But why is he called 'Sir' if he's only a chef?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Ah," Dean paused. "Never really thought about it before. When _did _we start calling him 'sir', Blaise?"

"Got me," the candlestick replied, reaching the bottom. "I've always known him as that. Perhaps as a tribute to alliteration?"

"Well," Dean started. "Either way, he may be just a chef, but he's got a bloody lot of influence over the Master for just a cook. In fact, he probably won't be in the kitchen right now—most likely off somewhere in the castle doing business for the Prince with McGonagall or something. The Master usually listens to Snape over anybody else, so we all figured that we ought to. Wow," he said. "I've just realized the logic behind that."

"Ah, shut up, you. You're going to go all philosophical on me pretty soon if you keep up that attitude," Blaise said from ten meters ahead. "The point is that Snape's important, so he gets a 'Sir' before his name." he paused, looking up at the ceiling. "Sir Zabini." he nodded. "I like the sound of it."

"Splendid," Dean sounded horrorstruck, and Hermione couldn't help but laugh.

"So if Sir Snape is a cauldron because he cooks," Hermione began. "And you're a paintbrush because you're an artist…" He nodded. "The what kind of job do you have, Blaise? Besides the more… questionable tasks, that is." He stuck his nose in the air.

"My job is a highly significant one," he said haughtily. "Without me, you all would be stumbling around in the dark."

"He's a bit touchy his about _real _job," Dean whispered to Hermione, who had to bend down a great deal to hear, making it a little difficult while she tried to walk down the stairs. "It was the only open position when he got here." They reached the bottom. "While we were still mortal," Dean continued to whisper and Hermione began to feel as though she'd never be able to stand upright again. "Blaise was quite the loner." Hermione's eyebrows shot up into her hairline. "I know, hard to imagine. But he _was _quite the quiet one. The only time any of us really ever paid attention to him was at night when he lit the candles and in the morning when he blew them out."

"No," Hermione shook her head. "Not _him_."

"Difficult to believe," he nodded. "I know."

"I can _hear _you." Blaise said, but he didn't sound completely annoyed about it. "I've developed a little motto since our transformation. I'd like to think that it's helped to release me from my shell."

"It's really an amazing slogan," Dean commented. "He's become quite the philosopher since his brain is made of wax."

"Oh, do shut up, Dean. You're one to talk, bristle brains. Whiskery, bristly, fiber brains."

"So this motto is?" Hermione asked, hoping to draw the conversation away from brains.

"When in doubt," Blaise said proudly, inhaling deeply. "Make a complete fool of yourself."

"Pardon me?"

"You see, Hermione," Blaise continued, waiting for Hermione and Dean to catch up. "There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on Earth." He shrugged. "So what the hell? Leap!"

"Sounds philosophical enough," Hermione observed with a shrug.

"I rather thought so, too," Blaise agreed.

"Here's the kitchens," Dean said pushing open the swinging door and keeping it open for Hermione. She stepped in, letting her eyes take in the appliances and the many, many moving objects all cooking and cleaning. All of them were much too busy doing whatever it was that they were doing to pay too much attention to Hermione or her two tour guides. Dean let go of the door, which promptly smacked Blaise in the wick, sliding him two meters back from the door.

"I'd like to know what I did to deserve that!" They could hear the muffled sound of Blaise's indignant cry from the other side.

"Are you two… friends?" Hermione asked, trying to sound tactful.

"More or less," Dean replied. "We're roommates more than we are mates."

"That was bloody uncalled for!" Blaise exclaimed, opening the door and stepping in the kitchen entrance. "Do you see what I have to put up with?" He turned to Hermione. "The indignity of it all!"

"Indeed," Hermione said consolingly, with an amused smile. "How do you manage?"

"Please, Hermione," Dean pleaded. "Don't encourage him, I beseech you."

"I beg your pardon!" Blaise exclaimed, causing many of the working objects to look up in surprise. "How dare—"

"Miss! Miss!" Many small teacups and saucers cried, running or rolling towards the door and tugging at the hem of Hermione's dress, pulling her to a small wooden table to the left. "Sit, miss!" They ordered, pulling out a chair for her and pushing the seat in after she had sat down. "Please sit, miss!"

"Back off, you bunch of guest-stealing leeches!" Blaise jumped onto the table, shooing away the many teacups that were placing a napkin in Hermione's lap—"Neat, miss!"—and those who were setting the table in front of her. "Off with you!" Dean watched amusedly, finding it wiser not to try to stop Blaise just yet. Hermione only watched the teacups at first, slightly shocked at the service she was receiving before she came to her senses and tried to help them.

"No, really," she said softly to one teacup who was extremely determined to place a fork in the correct spot, but was having some difficulty moving it to the right location by itself. "You don't have do that," she moved her hand as if she was going to help.

"No, miss!" the teacup looked startled, and was looking quite distressed about the matter. "No help, miss!"

"But really—"

"Please no help, miss!" The teacup cried fearfully, dragging the metal fork to its spot. It grunted and groaned as it dragged it onto the place mat. "Miss — no — help!"

"ARRRRRGGHHH!" Blaise roared pathetically, but it was enough to scare away the fearful little teacups, which immediately stopped what they were doing to run off and hide in a cupboard above a sink. The other kitchen workers didn't look too pleased with Blaise. "That ought to show 'em —"

"_Blaise_!" Hermione exclaimed, watching the teacups frantically accumulate in the glass cabinet.

"What?" He asked. Hermione sent him a look.

"Oh, dear!" came a squeaky voice to the left. "No, children — it's quite all right!" Hermione turned to the cupboard that the small teacups had squashed themselves into unmercifully to see a shockingly white, tiny book hopping up and down frantically, trying to calm the frightened teacups. His frenzy alarmed them somewhat more, but they calmed down after a few more gently calming and consoling words. They reluctantly emerged from the glass cabinet above the sink and continued their chores in the kitchen, though they tried to avoid Blaise as much as possible and were quite jumpy the rest of the time that Hermione was in the kitchen.

"Good morning, miss!" The teeny white book greeted from the top of the table in front of her. Hermione jumped slightly; she hadn't seen him get on the top. "I am Filius Flitwick! You won't often see me in the kitchens other than at meal times, but I do hope that we shall meet again soon," he squeaked pleasantly. Hermione smiled, feeling slightly dumbfounded once again.

"I'm Hermione," she told the book. "Hermione Granger."

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Granger!" He smiled, his pages crinkling noisily. The book was quite old, though it didn't look too haggard or used. The pages were stiff with age and scuffled every time it moved. "Here is your menu!"

"Oh," she said, stunned, gently taking the menu in front of her. "Thank you." The little book bowed and hopped off of the table onto a rolling cart to her left, which promptly rolled back to the other side of the kitchen. Hermione watched in amazement, before turning to look at the brushes washing the plates and silverware in the sink and the stove cooking marvelously delicious smelling things in the pots and pans on its burners. She turned to her own plate and silverware. Picking up the fork that the poor little teacup had had so much trouble with and inspecting it carefully, she turned to Blaise and Dean, who were sitting in the chairs across from her. The chairs were so low however, that Blaise and Dean had to sit on tall stacks of books, towels and other assorted items to reach the top.

"These," Hermione pointed to the fork and plates. "They aren't… well, _alive_, are they?" She asked timidly.

"Of course not," Blaise told her comfortingly. "Those are one hundred percent inanimate." Hermione took another look at them, just to be sure. She then turned to her menu.

"Brunch!" Flitwick rolled back with his cart to the edge of the table and hopped off. Countless teacups began jumping off the cart, all tinkling and clanging, carrying plates and platters filled with various foods. The only other place Hermione had ever seen so much food—although it was never _all _for her—was the Weasleys' table. Ignoring the quickening of her heart, she watched as they brought out meat, potatoes, fruits, and vegetables, not to mention sweets, desserts and candies of every kind imaginable. The table was looking rather full, but the teacups continued to bring more off another cart that had arrived.

"Oh," Hermione sat, speechless. "Erm, thank you."

"Why, Miss!" Flitwick looked shocked. "There is no need for thanks!" Though he looked rather pleased, anyway.

The teacups finished packing the table with food then scurried back onto their rolling carts. Flitwick hopped on the last one to leave the table, squeaked: "Enjoy your meal, Miss! Do not fear to ask for anything you need!" And then he rolled off back to the other side of the kitchen, leaving behind five teacups, all of which were sitting at the end of the table, waiting obediently for an order.

"You kind of get used to them running around after awhile," Dean told Hermione. "I used to work in the kitchen sometimes." He looked sullen. "There wasn't always a lot of work for a painter, you know." Hermione was about to reply when Blaise interrupted.

"No!" He scolded one of the remaining teacups that were trying to take one of the towels from underneath him. "Stop that!"

"_Blaise_," Hermione gave him a look.

"What?" he asked innocently. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Never mind him, Hermione," Dean told her apologetically. "I think you'd better eat something soon, the little guys are going to explode if they're not given something to clean."

"I can have…" Hermione gestured to what was on the table. "Anything?"

"Sure," Blaise said. "I recommend the chicken. And the roast beef. And the potatoes. You can never go wrong with potatoes." he nodded. "Go with the potatoes."

"Potatoes it is then," Hermione shrugged, feeling a little overwhelmed.

And instantly, the tiny teacups burst to life and raced for the plate of baked potatoes before Hermione even had a chance to reach for the plate. Grunting, the little teacups brought the plate over to Hermione and began loading her plate with potatoes.

"But, honestly," Hermione said softly. "You really don't have to—"

"Enough, miss?" One asked, shoveling another spoonful of potatoes onto her plate. "Stop now?"

"Yes," Hermione said instantly and watched them with some displeasure return the plate back to its original location and return to their spots. They returned to the edge of the table, waiting for their next order.

"You'll get used to them," Dean promised. "After awhile you might not even know they're there." He said, looking a little sheepish.

"You don't strike me as a particularly good liar," Hermione said truthfully.

"No, actually," Dean admitted. "I'm not." Hermione glanced at the teacups warily.

"Will they ever let me lift a finger?" Hermione asked.

"They'll let you eat," Dean replied. "Though I can't make any promises when you try to help yourself to something." Hermione looked down at her plate and picked up a fork. The teacups jerked to life, but remained in their spots.

"Flitwick called them children," she whispered, not exactly fond of talking about them when they were right next to her, but she had the distinct feeling that they weren't going to be leaving anytime soon. "Are they… paid?"

"Er, they have a place to sleep and have things to eat," Dean said, looking somewhat sheepish again. "But they don't mind—really."

"Are you kidding?" Blaise cut in from his chair. "They live to serve. They quite enjoy it." Hermione scoffed.

"Well, I'm quite sure that it's only because they don't know any better!" She whispered harshly with a wary glance to her left. They didn't seem to notice what she was talking about. "How old are they?"

"Well… uh…" Blaise thought. "I dunno." She looked at Dean, who shrugged.

"Pretty young, I guess." Dean didn't seem to find anything wrong with his statement, much to Hermione's indignant anger for them.

"You guess?" Hermione asked incredulously.

"Well," Dean looked uncomfortable. "If _they _don't mind working, why should we?"

"Because they don't know any better!" Hermione whispered harshly.

"Hermione," Blaise interrupted, getting off of his chair and finding a tiny open spot on the table. "You can't worry about them. They're happy. " Hermione sighed, frustrated.

"Where are their parents?"

"Dunno." Blaise said offhandedly. "Orphans."

"Oh," Hermione said looking sullen. Her thoughts traveled to Harry and to her own parents.

"Er," Dean fumbled, a plain look of guilt on his face. "Don't worry about it," he tried to sound consoling. "They're happy working here."

"But—"

"No 'buts'," Blaise interrupted. "Now, if you don't mind, I'm going straight for the ice cream," Blaise announced and bounced over to the opposite end of the table, finding it rather difficult to find open spots.

"Bring back some cherries, Blaise!" Dean called down to him. "And don't eat all the Yorkshire pudding!"

Suddenly, the teacups burst from their spots with such speed that Dean fell over backwards off his pile of towels and books. They dashed madly across the table after Blaise, who was now enjoying chocolate cookies and somehow holding a jar of maraschino cherries. Blaise shrieked madly as they dodged his cherry slinging with some difficulty. Hermione stared, dumbfounded for a second, before…

"Blaise!" Hermione cried, taking hold of the candleholder and the cherries. The teacups stopped immediately, forming a line out in front of her and waiting for instructions. "Enough," Hermione told them.

"That's right, Hermione," Blaise cheered. "You tell 'em!"

"All of you are allowed to eat this food, all right?" Hermione said to them. They looked at each other, confused and unsure. This had clearly never happened before. "I don't mind if Blaise and Dean eat this, just like the rest of you." She set Blaise down next to Dean, who had just recently managed to get back onto the pile, and set the cherries between them. Thanking her, they began to stuff their faces incessantly, their mouths becoming comically lumpy with sweets. Hermione pushed one plate of cookies a little closer to the teacups in hope that they might take some, but they looked far too timid to try. A little disappointed, but not discouraged, Hermione took a bite out of her potato, looking at the rest of the kitchen.

It appeared that they had all been watching interestedly, but as soon as she turned to them, they continued to work.

"Wait a second…" Hermione said slowly, after swallowing. "You can eat?"

"Ub corth!" Blaise said, his mouth ridiculously full with cherries. He swallowed loudly. "It's a favorite pastime of ours."

"But—how?" She shook her head, trying to find a way to phrase her question. "I mean—_where_? Oh, you know what?" Hermione stabbed her potato, causing a few of the teacups to jump and making Hermione feel guilty. "Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

"Suit yourself," said an empty-mouthed Blaise before he slurped some milk noisily. Hermione watched in what she could only describe as grim fascination.

"It's kind of like watching a carriage wreck or something, innit?" Dean asked thoughtfully, popping another cherry into his mouth. And suddenly her train of thought was jerked from Blaise and Dean to carriages to accidents to scars and then finally to Harry. She swallowed and blinked, wondering what _wouldn't _remind her of her friends. "You can't bear to watch, but you can't look away…"

"I her ''at!" Blaise exclaimed, sounding amply offended. He hopped down from his seat and bounced to the other side of the kitchen. "Just got to get more cherries!" He explained after Hermione's inquisitive glance. Friends temporarily forgotten, she held up her hand, pretending that she was going to yawn so as not to let them see her laugh and ended up yawning anyway.

"Tired?" Dean asked.

"A little," she said, which wasn't completely dishonest.

"So what—" Dean had started, but broke off suddenly and looking meanly at something he thought to be extremely vile behind her.

"Dean?" Hermione asked worriedly. "Dean?" She repeated again. His eyes jerked back to hers and his facial expression returned to normal.

"What? Oh," Dean shook his head. "Sorry 'bout that."

"What just—"

"Wotcher, Seamus!" They could hear Blaise holler, even from the other side of the room. Dean groaned and let face meet the table. "Fancy seeing you here!"

"Blaise, you big glutton, you," said a broom with sandy-colored bristles good-naturedly. "Good cherries, eh?" he asked, spotting the new maraschino cherry jar. "Bet you—"

But he cut himself short when he looked at the table and spotted Hermione. The look he gave her was so incredulous and filled with shocked wonder that Hermione couldn't help but feel a little uncomfortable. The gaze didn't last long however, and soon his speechlessness wore off. He grinned broadly, sweeping himself over to her right and extending a clump of his bristles to shake her hand with. "Me name's Seamus." He introduced himself. Hermione laughed a little at the absurdity of the gesture as she shook 'hands' with him. "Real pleasure to meet you, miss."

"Hermione," she said, feeling a little tired of introducing herself so many times in twenty-four hours. Everyone knew her back home; there wasn't a need for introductions anymore and Hermione oddly felt out of practice. Hermione desperately tried to push away the terrible, recurrent feeling of homesickness in the pit of her stomach. "Glad to meet you, Seamus." And finally releasing the bristles Hermione glanced at Blaise at he somehow managed to get back up on a seat across from her with a full jar of juicy cherries. "You can join us if you like." His eyes seemed to light up and his mouth opened as if he were going to accept, but then they heard a forced cough to her left. Dean did not look happy, but smiled innocently when she turned to him. _No, _Hermione thought, raising a brow. _He's definitely not a particularly good liar_.

"You know," Seamus said, bringing Hermione's attention away from Dean. "I'd love to."

"Wonderful," Hermione said as Seamus sat next to Blaise, across from she and Dean. The teacups continued to hover in their spots, just waiting to be given orders.

Dean didn't look at Seamus. Seamus didn't look at Dean. Blaise was painfully oblivious and—yet again—filled with cherries.

Hermione wasn't stupid.

And she was about to start a conversation, hopefully forcing the brush and broom to speak, Blaise blurted out: "These things never get old, do they?" He popped another into his mouth. "You can have a million, a gazillion even, and they'll never stop tasting fantastic." In went another.

"Hm," Dean said noncommittally. "Interesting."

"So, Hermione," Seamus started, turning to the only mortal at the table. "Have you gotten used to all of us being—well, you know?" Hermione half-shrugged.

"It's still a little… different," she finished. She decided she needed more potatoes. She reached for the platter when the teacups sprang to life and started to run toward it when she held out her finger. "Ah, ah, _ah_…" Hermione shook her head. "We just spoke about this."

"But, miss!" They all cried.

"Here," she gave them a potato. "Enjoy." They stared at the vegetable dubiously before running to the edge of the table, carrying it all the way and cautiously digging in once they reached their destinations. She took a bite out of the chicken that had been put on her plate at some point and sat back contentedly. Seamus watched interestedly.

"What was that all about?" He asked her. "I've never seen them do that."

"I'm just cutting them a little slack," she told him with a smirk, feeling more satisfied. "That's all."

"I told her to just leave them be," Blaise threw in between cherries. "But she wouldn't listen."

"I don't understand why they should be made to serve my every whim, when it's so obviously unfair to them." Hermione stabbed her potato; Seamus jumped slightly. "And," the potato split open. "They're _children_ no less."

"Well," Seamus swallowed, eyeing her fork warily. "That's usually the price you pay when you lead a life of royal servitude." He said truthfully. "It isn't always fair to the servants."

"I still don't think it's right," Hermione said stubbornly, popping her bit of potato in her mouth. She swallowed and was about to take another piece when she suddenly looked up at Seamus. "Are you hungry at all?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Seamus told her. "I ate earlier this morning. Thank you, though." Seamus smiled at her and Hermione returned the favor. Dean rolled his eyes in a not-so-subtle way. "Is there a problem, _Thomas_?" He arched an eyebrow.

"No, no." Dean replied, looking at his plate. "Fine. Everything is just _fine_, Finnegan."

"Well," Seamus replied. "Isn't that just great."

"I rather think it is." Dean said, returning Seamus' gaze.

"Fine."

"Fine."

Hermione glanced back and forth between the two, not really sure how to respond. Blaise, of course, was still eating his cherries.

"Mmm," Blaise commented, licking his lips satisfactorily. "Good."

"You know what," Seamus suddenly looked at Hermione. "It's been a wonderful pleasure meeting you, but I'm sorry, I really have things to do." He half-smiled as he shook her hand again and apologized some more.

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat before you go?" She asked, unsatisfied with the lack of communication between the two servants.

"No, thank you," Seamus repeated, getting off of the chair. "I'm fine."

"Well," Hermione shrugged slightly. "If you're sure. Goodbye, Seamus." She smiled.

"Bye, Hermione. See you around." And with a quick smile, Seamus walked to the other side of the kitchen and disappeared behind one of the doors. Hermione turned to Dean, planning to ask him what had happened, but he interrupted her before she had a chance.

"You know what?" Dean asked, but continued before waiting for a reply. "I have something really quick I have to do, too." He gave her a small apologetic grin. "I'll be back soon," he told her, getting off of the high pile of objects.

"But, what about—"

"I'll be back soon!" he called, walking out the door that they had come in.

Hermione sighed, feeling a little more than frustrated.

"Bye," she repeated dully, stabbing her potatoes again. The teacups shrieked and jumped again, but Hermione didn't notice.

"Why the long face, Hermione?" Blaise asked, his mouth finally empty. "You look a bit down. And you're potatoes aren't looking so hot, either."

"Oh, sorry," she looked up. "Nothing's wrong… in particular. At least, aside from the obvious, I suppose." Hermione shook her head. "It's just… what was going on between Seamus and Dean?"

"Oh, _those_ two," Blaise nodded wisely. "Yeah, don't worry about that. They're just in a bit of row right now, but that's all right. These sorts of things between the two of them come and go."

"They're friends, then?"

"Best mates."

"Then… what happened?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Well, you see," Blaise started. "About a week ago we were holding our weekly game night. Laundry room this time—we keep having to switch rooms because people can get a little too irritated about it—the whole lot of us were up there. Now, we usually don't have any problems with the game, as we're all quite experienced." He paused a bit. "But last week, Seamus was doing unusually well, and won the entire pot—a whopper of a pot, too! —with his last hand."

"What's wrong with that?"

"Dean accused Seamus of cheating, but Seamus was having none of it." Blaise shook his head. "Said that Dean was just jealous. It was just the luck of the Irish, is all. _Ha_," Blaise smirked. "Anyway, they had this huge fight about it and have barely been civil since. Seamus started sleeping down here in the kitchen, too."

"Did he really cheat?" Blaise shrugged.

"Dunno. It didn't really matter all that much to me, though. I'm terrible with gambling. Though it certainly doesn't stop me," he said with a wink. Hermione sat for awhile, not really sure what to think of a bunch of broom and candles and paintbrushes gambling, when Blaise hopped from his chair to the floor and informed her that they had to get a move on with the tour.

"There's still much to see, you know." He began walking to the door. "Big, bloody castle."

"Ehm, Blaise? Can I ask you for a favor?"

"At your service!"

"Could I just go back up to my room for awhile to take a nap?" Hermione asked, sounding apologetic. "I'd love to go see the castle some more, but I think I'm still just too tired to do anything right now."

"Of course, my dear, Hermione!" Blaise replied happily. "We'll be sure to see the castle later." Hermione smiled at him gratefully.

"Thank you, Blaise."

"I do live to serve." Smiling at her in return, he opened the door for her like a true gentleman and bowed so low that his flame reached the tiles.

Hermione walked out into the grand hallway, waiting for Blaise to lead her back to her room. Hermione was too groggy to pay detailed attention to the floor design of the castle this morning, but now that she had something in her stomach, she could begin to plan her escape.

"So, did you enjoy your meal?" Blaise asked, interrupting Hermione's thoughts.

"What? Oh, yes," Hermione assured him. "Very much. I especially liked the potatoes."

"I'm not sure your fork thought so."

"Wait—_what_? You said it was inanimate!" she grasped her throat and covered her mouth, looking absolutely mortified.

"What—_oh_, they are!" Blaise explained. "Eh, pardon my wording—I, er, tend to—it's just a habit I have when talking—I mean, you know what I mean. I hope." Hermione looked much more relieved and removed her hands.

"Yes, I think I do," she sighed. "You scared me for a moment there."

"Pardon that," he said apologetically. "It's just that it's kind of hard getting used to seeing a mortal again after so long, you know?" Blaise said, his tone a little more serious.

_No, _Hermione thought. _Not really._

"All settled, then?"

"Yes, Blaise," Hermione said, stepping into her room and walking toward the bed. "Thank you."

"Not a problem," he replied cheerily from the doorway. "Now Lavender and Parvati went down the hall for awhile, but if you need anything just call them and they'll take care of it, understand?" Hermione nodded. "Well, okay then. I'll be back in an hour or so to see how you're doing. Enjoy your nap."

"I will," Hermione smiled softly and waved as he turned to leave and closed the door.

Hermione closed her eyes and sighed quietly, the smile slowly leaving her face. She turned around to look through the huge window, only to find the pine tree branches heavily covered with a layer of snow. She made her way to the seat by the window, checking that no one was around. Kneeling on the seat, Hermione placed a hand on the wall to her right and looked down at the ground.

Sure enough, after Hermione's eyes adjusted to the blinding glare of the white snow, she could see that it was an awfully long way down. She'd never be able to escape from her window.

She plopped down onto the seat, grabbing one of the many throw pillows from behind her and bit her lip thoughtfully, going over her options. What was she to do? She couldn't just walk right out the front door in the middle of the night. _The Prince most likely has guards_—_that is, unless he doesn't think I'm actually going to try anything. _She pondered this. _He probably doesn't think I'm the least bit capable, _she thought angrily. _The pompous _arse_. But then again, this might be an advantage. _She stared out the window. _Would he really have guards? Or would he not want to waste any more of his servants on me? _

Hermione leaned back against the wall, taking slight comfort in the cool touch of the stone. _He wouldn't have guards, _she decided, her brows furrowed in deep thought. _But what would he use to keep me here then? And he never directly said what would happen if I wandered through the castle… who would take care of that? _She looked out at the trees.

_Of course_.

The forest was filled with animals.

_Bugger_, Hermione thought, tossing the pillow back onto the seat and standing up. _How could I have possibly forgotten? I'll have to have something to protect myself, _she noted. _I can find something later. _She began to pace back and forth, wringing her hands. _How do I get out of the castle? I'll have to have Blaise and Dean take me around some more_—

Hermione stopped mid-pace. What about Dean and Blaise never being able to return to their mortal forms? What about Madam McGonagall, Sir Snape and Seamus? Or Lavender and Parvati even? What about that spoilt, arrogant prat of Prince himself?

_Can I really just leave all of them behind without a second glance? _She bit her lip. _Maybe I could somehow leave something behind for Blaise and Dean_—_something to let them know that if I ever found anything that might help that I'd come back, no matter what the Prince might say. _She looked at the trees again. _I want to help them, _she turned to the spots where Lavender and Parvati usually sat. _I do, but I'm needed more elsewhere. _She nodded slightly to herself, deciding that this was the way it had to be. She needed to get home.

And with this determined frame of mind, Hermione glanced around the room. She spotted a desk in the corner to the left of her window and instantly went there to look for some parchment. _I can start a map, _she thought. _So I'll actually know where I'm going. When they take me around, I'll look for a room that's not too high from the ground_—_maybe I can get out that way._

Hermione hastily opened drawer after drawer searching for parchment and something to write with. After six drawers and no success, she began to get frustrated. _What kind of desk doesn't have any utensils? _She scoffed under her breath. _Maybe the git doesn't think women, high-class or otherwise, are literate. That'd explain it. _She shut another drawer.

"Okay, Hermione," she glanced around the room again. Her bed. A chair. Nothing helpful. "If you were some parchment, where would you be?"

_In a desk_, Hermione thought angrily. She checked her nightstand, but all she found were some spare candles. She looked through the desk again and found a quill, which would come in handy, but nothing to write on. She sighed, frustrated.

"I'll take anything at this point," she muttered under her breath. "A tiny scrap. Anything." She searched through another dresser and some shelves, but found nothing. "Great," Hermione muttered. "The only place left to look is the _bathroom_. Ha." But Hermione had nothing to lose, so off to the bathroom she went to look.

"This is absolutely ridicul—"

But Hermione was interrupted by a great, long creak of the floorboard beneath her. With a small shriek, Hermione jumped away, glaring at the floorboard. _So much for my mental note_. When she looked carefully, the middle was sagging ever so slightly and one edge was just barely higher than the other was. Putting her search for some parchment on hold, Hermione knelt on the ground and took hold of the higher edge. She tried to get it back into place, but it was stuck.

"Come on," she said. "Just go in _a little _further—"

Instead, the end of the floorboard sprang up, nearly hitting Hermione in the face and completely knocking her over backwards. Sitting up on her forearms, Hermione cursed the floorboard angrily. She knelt in front of it again, still muttering, and grabbed the end with one hand and braced herself against the floor with the other. She started to push it down, when something in the cavity caught her eye. Cocking her head to the side curiously, Hermione gingerly reached into the hollow space and took out a small, thin book.

The book had a shabby black leather cover and water stained pages. They weren't as old as Flitwick's pages, which crinkled with every move, but they were beginning to turn yellow and were stiff around the edges. Hermione turned it over in her hands carefully. On the back was the name of a variety shop that she recognized from her parents, who had often traveled to back to their previous home of London. She sighed at the memory as she continued to read the address of the store. She recognized the name of the street as well, as she and her mother had gone shopping there a few times before.

Hermione opened the cover of the book. There on the inside cover was the name:

_Tom Marvolo Riddle_

She stared at the name for a moment. _Why would this Tom Riddle keep a book under a floorboard in a lady's guest room? _She turned the book over in her hands again. _What's in here that he'd want to hide? What is it exactly_—_a diary? _Hermione looked at the name again. She had never heard it before.

Hermione had always been one to intensely respect others' privacy, but the intense curiosity was eating away at her insides. _Get a hold of yourself, Hermione. He was probably just some servant, _she told herself. _There isn't going to be anything special in here. _Yet even still, Hermione couldn't resist the urge to look. What if there was some information that could somehow allow her to escape?

But before she did anything else, Hermione hastily closed the floorboard, leaving it as it was before and ran to the door, hugging the diary close to her. She opened one of the doors a crack and took a peek outside. Not a sound. Hermione didn't know which room Lavender and Parvati were in or when any of them were going to be back. She closed the door quietly and ran to the seat by the window. She plopped down on the red cushions, leaning against the many pillows with the book in her lap.

Taking in a deep breath, Hermione opened the book again. She paused, still hesitant about invading someone's privacy—especially if they were seemingly no longer around to really protect it. But with one more look at Tom's name, Hermione flipped the page without a second thought.

On the first two pages was what looked like a family tree, starting with a name that she couldn't make out and ending with the man to whom the book belonged. It was blurred in some areas, to Hermione's displeasure, including the top of the page that noted the year, both because of old age and when it had gotten wet. She flipped the page again. Indeed, it was a diary.

She took another deep breath and began to read.

_June 5, XXXX_

_I believe it is now time to start a diary of my own, as is tradition; one that will explain my progressions for reclaiming the throne. I have read and studied the diaries of those who came before me enough to have memorized their words, and now it is my duty to inscribe my own._

_I, Tom Marvalo Riddle, descendent of Tom Riddle and Merope Gaunt,_ _am _the_ true heir of Salazar Slytherin. As the prophecy states, I shall be the one to finally succeed in possessing the kingdom that our bloodline so deserves._

_This diary, a chronicle of my success at reclaiming the throne will provide all the essential knowledge of my history. Though I will not ever achieve immortality myself, I shall forever be immortalized in this journal, which will therefore guide my descendants to rule once I am gone._

_The others before have all kept diaries to record the kingdom's development, whether from outside the castle walls, or like I, from a position among the royal staff. As like all of the others, they have explained our story, some in more detail than others have. Assuming that the future readers of this diary will have had adequate education regarding our history in their coming of age studies, I will make the story as brief as possible._

_Most are ignorantly unaware that the Slytherin castle was once used as a school: Hogwarts. Founded by four powerful and wealthy rulers, Salazar Slytherin included, Hogwarts became a famous school for the wealthy and noble. Helga Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw and Godric Gryffindor, the other founders of the school and self-proclaimed equalists, believed that Hogwarts should serve _all _bloodlines. Slytherin refused outright. Eventually, however, Hogwarts allowed the enrollment of a more _diverse_ population, much to the resentment of the parents of current students and Salazar himself; it was no longer Slytherin's castle._

_Slytherin left in outrage, swearing vengeance on those who had taken his castle from him, and disappeared. From past diaries, it is said that Slytherin instructed all of his descendants to keep records of the school and its founders, which is how our tradition began. He also predicted that when at last his true heir was born, the castle would be reclaimed, and he would be avenged. _

_Centuries after Slytherin's disappearance, the school's enrollment began to dwindle and decrease, gradually losing students each year until the school was at last forced to close. The other founders' vision had failed, but not before tainting the Hogwarts grounds with impure blood._

_Through questionable means no doubt laced with corruption, Prince Lucius Malfoy, one of the last royal students to attend Hogwarts, and his family managed to _reserve_ the vacant castle as the future home of his union with Princess Narcissa, of the Black family. Not long after their marriage and Lucius' coronation, a new kingdom was born._

_Meanwhile, my mother was carrying me in her womb. She had never succeeded in making it onto the royal staff, yet she did manage to earn me a position in the castle by seducing Tom Riddle, my father. He had been an associate of Lucius in school, because he was one of the few left with any noble blood, though much poorer in status. It was at this point in time that my father was actually serving them as a royal advisor. He mysteriously died a few weeks before my mother showed up at the feet of the King and Queen in their throne room, begging to see the father of her baby. _

_The Malfoys, as I shall explain further, are as talented as they are deceitful. They may have their kingdom fooled, and their servants perhaps, but anyone who genuinely knows a Malfoy knows the truth: their compassion is false. The Malfoy family has been wildly prosperous only due to their impeccable sense of self-preservation, their cunning, and their flawless capability of lying to their own subjects. I have learned much from them._

_So when my pregnant mother came in begging to see a man who had been somewhat of a "friend" to Lucius, claiming that he was the father of her baby_—_a bastard child whose noble blood was tainted with the blood of a peasant _—_Lucius had half a mind to send us both off to rot in the dungeons._

_But upon further consideration of the matter Albus Dumbledore (a professor Lucius had permitted to stay merely because of his prestige), and a reminder that claimed responsibility for our well-being, Lucius allowed my mother to stay in the servants' quarters. She died while giving birth, leaving the servants tending to her only with what was going to be my name and a whisper: "The diaries… the heir."_

_I was Dumbledore's responsibility until I came of age then, my education exceeding many of those of royal blood because of the undeniable brilliance of my professor. But mark my words: brilliant, he may be, but he is as skilled in determining character, as he is unwise. Never foolish, never imprudent, but never wise._

_Dumbledore never trusted me. His suspicion is well-founded, but he is the only one with concern. I was never able to shield my true opinions from him, no matter how I tried. He was the only considerable threat to my destiny, and when I became the royal advisor myself, he was the first to go. Once I have achieved my goal, he shall be removed permanently. _

_The Malfoys. One would never think that a pair such as they could rule a kingdom so smoothly. Their reign has lasted about seventeen years, just over my current age, but their rule has not been tainted with so much as a battle. Their subjects are sickening; to whom do they credit this peace and prosperity? To the Malfoys, the family that has stolen from them and cheated them right from underneath them all, and then snatched the unjust rewards. If I could document the corruption, the lies… but this diary is not the place. And soon enough, none of it will even matter._

_Soon enough, this work will all be mine._

_The townspeople that come to beg for Lucius' and Narcissa's mercy disgust me_—_the things that they ask for, the pleas that they beseech. _ _What I have accomplished in the world, save for the final act of my pitiful mother and the fortuitous, egregious error of Dumbledore—I have done by myself, without the aid of those pitying me. Know this: Dependence demonstrates weakness_—_the worst weakness of all. _

_I am not weak; I do not depend on anything but myself. And look where that has gotten me. _

_Where it will get me._

_Both Lucius and Narcissa were feared during their Hogwarts days, for they both came from wealthy, powerful and important lineages. While never admired by those who knew them best, they were respected and feared for their strict control. Their peaceful kingdom, their gracious pretenses, it's all just a fabrication, a disguise created to maintain control._

_I'm one of the only ones who know the truth. And soon, with all of the lessons they have inadvertently taught me, it will be my turn._

_My birthright._

_Under the care of Dumbledore, I grew up in the castle. I was fascinated with knowledge and dedicated my free time to learning all there was to know, devouring every piece of literary work in the castle with an ease that Dumbledore often found astonishing, yet disturbing all the same. _ _I was obsessed with my family line, for reasons I wouldn't understand until later. I was determined to find out more about the last phrase uttered from my mother's lips. _

_The servant who had relayed my mother's message to me when I came of age urged me to never speak of this message to the King or Queen_—_or to Dumbledore. She left that night, off to another kingdom, and I can only assume that she and my mother had made a deal, but under what conditions or for what, I don't know. I know not the details of my mother's life._

_And for reasons unknown to me until just recently, I often wandered about the dungeons, starting as soon as I was allowed to roam the castle unaccompanied_—_another reason Dumbledore found motivation to suspect that something was strange about me. Every aspect of the dungeons intrigued me. _

_Then as fate would have it, one day just about a year ago_—_years after I had become the royal advisor and had gained the Malfoys' trust, I was taking my normal stroll through the castle, taking my time in the dungeons as I usually did, when something in an open cell caught my eye._

_One of the stones in the wall had been loose. And behind had been a compartment, filled with stacks of diaries. I had found part of the meaning of my mother's dying words._

_Secretly bringing each of them to my room at various intervals, so not as to attract attention or suspicion, I read them late at night in the privacy of my room, devouring each of them with a hunger I had never felt before. I learned the true tale of Hogwarts_—_not the biased and tampered version that Dumbledore had taught me, but the truth. I learned of the diary tradition_—_every generation that had managed to write a diary as expected of Slytherin, managed to somehow store the diary in the compartment in the dungeons. Even if it meant committing a crime before they died, the diary _must_ enter the compartment. And most importantly, I learned that my mother had meant I was _Salazar Slytherin's _heir. Her small, brief and scraggly diary had somehow managed to make its way into the compartment as well. _

_From the diaries I have learned that Slytherin had gone to a seer, seeking to manipulate her into doing deeds for his revenge or to curse the others if possible. And yet, rather then benefiting him in the way he had imagined, the seer made a prediction; a prophecy concerning his heir, born thousands of years from then. The exact words spoken by the unnamed prophet herself stated that I'd be the one to avenge him. The predicted date of the heir's birth matched mine, thousands of years after Slytherin's death. _

_And from that night on, I began devising my plan_—_considering the possibility of using a witch_ _like Slytherin had intended. I had already gained the trust of the royal family; although it had been simply for personal ambition at first, I must admit, it will surely aid me. I was always jealous of the Malfoys for their power over the kingdom, the ability to control so many people… I had always secretly wanted that power for myself. I tried to get as close to it as I could, gaining the Malfoys trust so I could influence their decisions to my liking. _

_But more significantly, I remembered that years before learning about my fate, and just shortly after I had taken title of _Lord_ Riddle, Lucius had slipped, in passing, something about my royal blood. I had never heard of this from Dumbledore and instantly suspected that its importance was far greater than I could imagine. I learned that _I_ was royalty, by some measure. And therefore, if Lucius and Narcissa were to be unable to rule_—_without having had an heir_—_after I had come of age, I could take the throne._

_Remembering this conversation, my scheme began to form. I needed a way to rid myself of Lucius and Narcissa. At just the right time, the scheme had to be inconspicuous, unobtrusive and untraceable back to me. It was only when I thought I had come up with the perfect solution that Lucius and Narcissa announced that she was with child._

_The possibility of killing them all at once, while Narcissa was still pregnant occurred to me more than once, but the idea proved more complicated than I imagined and I found that the best option was to wait until the brat was born. He was already causing problems for me._

Draco.

_Tonight, the apparent heir to throne, was born completely healthy, and with untainted blood._

_The boy will die as well. But not yet. First, he must suffer… I'd like to see this Prince handle being orphaned. I'd like to see him face things on his own. I can only imagine how the final product, so to speak, will turn out. Knowing the kind of treatment he's going to receive, taking care of himself is something I'm sure Draco will never think he'll have to worry about._

_I despise him already._

_He's ruined my plan. He's in the prophecy, although from what I can interpret from the seer_—_who seemed to have enjoyed speaking in riddles_—_Draco won't be much of threat. I've learned that life is unfair and life can be cruel. Only the strong survive. And yet, here life gives another example of its cruelty. Here a boy is born with two powerful parents who will never have to work for the power that he is promised, while my family has had to display an exhibition of cunning so extreme just to make it into the castle. I have had to charm and lie my way to reach the top. _

_But _this boy_, this boy who will never have to lift a finger so long as he shall live_—_he will have such a great amount of power at his fingertips that it sickens me. Luckily, I'll have put his life to an end before he can even so much as touch the throne. Lucius and Narcissa will be quite enjoyable to kill, but Draco is the real prize. _

_I'm going to have to wait a long time before I can even begin to take action, but it'll be worth it. _

_Just to see him suffer._

* * *

Hermione stared blankly at the page as she came to the end of the first entry, her hands shaking profusely. _Tom Riddle is the one who betrayed them? Who knows about this diary? _There were too many thoughts swirling around in her head_._

Hermione looked up from the book, speechless. She didn't know why, but she had the distinct feeling that no one in the castle had read this diary before. Breathing hard and desperately trying to figure out what to do, she heard something out in the corridor. Eyes wide, she immediately turned to the door.

Someone was coming back to the room.

Panicking, Hermione threw herself to the floor and ripped up the floorboard. Hastily placing the diary back in the hollow, she closed it again and jumped onto the bed, taking off her shoes and tossing them to the ground only after she was under the sheets. She quickly turned away from the door as she heard them reach the door. Hermione tried to steady her breathing, making it as even as she could, but failing. Her eyes shut tightly as the door behind her opened.

"Hermione?" It was Dean. "Are you awake?" He whispered.

She didn't answer, keeping her eyes tightly shut instead, and willing her wild heart to quell. Dean waited a moment, before gently closing the door without another word.

Releasing a fierce sigh of relief, Hermione waiting another minute lying down to calm herself. Finally, Hermione slowly sat up and looked at the floorboard. To anyone else, it would look the same as it did before Hermione came to the castle. To anyone else, it was just another old floorboard.

But now she _knew_. And there was something that she knew above all else.

She'd have to read it some more.


	7. Unraveling

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**AN:** It's been just over five years since I last updated this fic, and it's only thanks to Kite1011 that I even considered the notion of looking back on it. My writing style has changed so much… I wonder how obvious it will be in the following chapters.

And oh, how I miss my beta, Irene. Unfortunately, we lost contact shortly after I last updated. I would hate to ask anyone else to be my beta, after Irene stayed with me so faithfully through the first six chapters, so please excuse any errors you might find in the following chapters. I will try my best to proofread! Also, I was always so appreciative of Irene helping me to put this story into the British spellings. Without her, I'm afraid I've just grown too accustomed to using the Americanized versions, so this is the format that the story will use from now on.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Hermione?" Ron called out as he pushed the door open, hearing nothing but its responding creak. "It's strange that she left her door unlocked," Ron muttered to Harry and Ginny behind him. He stepped inside and paused on the threshold, examining the interior.

"I'll check her room," Ginny announced as she made her way down a corridor to the left. "Hermione," she called out. "Tell me you're not still asleep!"

"I wonder if she's ill," Harry mused, striding into the kitchen.

"She would have sent notice to us somehow," Ron countered.

"True," Harry admitted. "But not unless she didn't want us to sacrifice the party plans to come look after her?" Harry paused. "But no, she would have at least told us not to worry." Ron glanced at him, brows furrowed. He had just opened his mouth to say something else to Harry when Ginny emerged from the hallway, her boots tromping quickly on the floor.

"She's not here," Ginny said, forcing her voice to stay light. "She's not in her bedroom, nor the washroom, nor the sitting area." She turned to Harry, looking for an answer, and Ron followed suit. _Something isn't right_, he thought. Harry steeled himself, and swallowed.

"Perhaps she's outside," he suggested. "In the chicken coop or tending to the horses. Maybe she's just running a little late with her chores, and needs some help."

"She would've seen us coming up the road," Ron said quietly, his mouth hanging open as his forehead creased in consternation. He looked to the back door and sprung toward it without another word, yanking it open and bursting into the backyard. "Hermione!" Ron called out as he ran to the coop. Harry and Ginny followed, nearly running as they ran to and fro around the property, calling out Hermione's name.

"This is silly," Ginny said, coming to a halt. She didn't quite seem to believe herself as she said, "Hermione is probably just buying some supplies for the party—she may already be on her way there now, as we sit around up here like fools." She looked to the sky, squaring her shoulders and searching the clouds. "She has to be." Harry had come to a stop, as well. Ginny whispered, "Where else could she be?" Harry turned to Ginny, watching the way the wind whipped the flaming locks around her worried face, but didn't respond.

Ron came to a stop behind the stables, resting his hands on his knees as he worked to calm his ragged breathing. "I don't understand it," he whispered. "Everything's in order." He stood up, looking toward the cliff where Hermione liked to watch the sunset. _Maybe she really is out in town and I'm just being sensitive about what happened yesterday. _He sighed and brushed off some twigs and dust that had fallen onto his shoulders, admitting that perhaps they should head into town to see if Hermione might have paid a visit to one of the shops. Just as he was about to round the corner of the stables and head back toward Harry and Ginny, movement from the corner of his eye made him hesitate. On edge, he swung back around, only to find a dark horse trotting through the pasture.

"Oi, Auror, way to scare me to death, you big goat," Ron half-laughed. Then suddenly, the air escaped from his lungs. He stared at the pasture, willing his eyes to make Auror disappear. He didn't notice that Harry and Ginny had caught sight of Ron beyond the stables, and ran to join him.

"What's Auror doing outside?" Ginny asked, confused. "The pasture gate isn't even locked shut." Harry's shoulders grew tense.

"Hermione wouldn't leave Auror out in the night this late in November," he said while Ron continued to stare, fixated on the horse. "She babies them both too much."

"Something happened," Ron whispered. Ginny started.

"Ron, don't jump to conclusions," she said, though her voice sounded shaky. "Perhaps Auror just learned how to jump his stall, or open the door or something and Hermione doesn't even know he's still out here."

"Whatever happened, we'd best put Auror back inside," Harry said as he made his way to the pasture. Ron followed, a look of deep concentration on his face all the while.

As they lead Auror back to the stables, the three noticed that the horse was uncharacteristically cooperative, and even nuzzled the back of Harry's head, instead of playfully nipping his untamed hair. When it came time for Auror to enter the stall, Ginny didn't even have to lure him in with a carrot or oats. Ron shut the gate and locked it, while Auror seemed to watch with interest.

"Well, that's odd," said Harry, scratching the back of his head. "What do you think is up with him?" Ginny shrugged. Harry looked behind her and asked, "Where did Ron go?"

"Ron?" Ginny turned around. "I think he went outside."

And sure enough, Ron was standing near the gate of the pasture, with his hands in his pockets, and his face turned grimly toward the forest.

"Hermione went into the woods last night," he stated plainly when Harry and Ginny arrived. His face betrayed his calm voice. "I just have this feeling."

Harry and Ginny looked at one another, perplexed. Harry opened his mouth to say something, but he then felt Ginny's fingertips on his arm. He looked to her, and she gently shook her head. He turned to Ron's back once more, and then gazed upward at the expanse of trees before him.

"Let's check the town first," Harry said at last. "We'll ask around." He looked at Ginny, who was now examining the forest with trepidation. "If we can't figure out where she is from the townspeople, then the forest is the first place we'll look."

Ron said nothing, but continued to glare at the path among the trees.

* * *

"Blast," said Hermione under her breath as she closed the bathroom door behind her. She turned her head to the side and listened as Parvati and Lavendar's giggles continued on through the wood. _At this rate, I'll never get another chance to look at that diary._

Hermione had been trying to sneak another peak at the book all afternoon, but had not yet been able to find herself alone. What with Lavendar and Parvati barging in to share gossip every ten minutes and Blaise and Dean constantly checking in on her every so often, Hermione was sure that she would only have enough time to _think_ of the diary before she was interrupted again.

With one hand still on the handle, she fell against the door, resting her head on the molding and trying to get a grip on her swirling thoughts. _It was Tom Riddle who made the great betrayal,_ Hermione mused as she bit her lip. _But what happened? He was looking for the aid of a witch? Did he ask her to cast this spell on them?_ Hermione turned to the window. _But McGonagall said that a _gypsy_ placed the spell over the castle… are they the same thing? Riddle intended to _kill_ the Prince, not transform him. Where did all of the people go? What happened to the King and Queen?_ She bit the inside of her cheek, desperately wishing to go back and snatch the diary up from underneath the floorboard.

"What a horrible man," Hermione whispered, thinking of Riddle. "He was against them from the very start… and they must never have even suspected." She ran a hand through her curly mane, knowing with certainly that her dressers would be highly distressed to know that it had already fallen out of the neat bun they had so meticulously created for her. "The Prince must have been devastated." She looked up to the ceiling, as if she might be able to sense the Prince's whereabouts, and examined the tiles with sad eyes. "He'd be even more devastated if he knew about this diary." Hermione tensed, suddenly worried.

_What if he found out that I had found this evidence? And that I was reading all of the traitor's dark secrets? After that single encounter that we've shared, I doubt he would hesitate to take his anger out on me... _Hermione gripped the door handle even more tightly. "What do I do?" she mouthed. "Do I tell Blaise or Dean? Even McGonagall doesn't speak his name…" She rested her eyelids, suddenly exhausted. "It won't do them any good to tell anyone about it, not yet," she told herself quietly. "It won't change anything that's happened, and it will only get me thrown in the dungeons… or killed… or brutally mauled." Hermione swallowed and pressed the heels of her palms into her closed eyes. "No one can protect me here," she whispered. "I have to protect myself." She slid her hands to her temples. "The servants can be as nice to me as they like, but they have no control over the Prince's decisions… I'm still his prisoner here." Her hands dropped to her sides, as the realization finally started to sink in. "I'm a prisoner," she repeated.

She felt her body slid down the door and she hit the ground with a dull thud, her hands falling limply into her lap. Her eyes were aimed toward the bathtub, but they saw nothing but a hazy mesh of colors. She was trapped in that castle, regardless of her newfound pleasant acquaintances or the luxury in which she slept. It did not matter how seasoned the potatoes were or how free she was to roam about certain areas of the castle for she was a prisoner, and just that morning before the diary had distracted her, she had been planning to escape.

"How could I have almost forgotten," Hermione mouthed disbelievingly to herself, as she sat crumpled on the bathroom floor. "I was so captivated by that awful diary that I wasted precious time—time I could have used to learn the castle layout." She shook her head, angry with herself. "And I never even found the materials for that map!" She tapped her fingers on the floor tiles. "I've been nothing but careless since yesterday. With the map, with the forest, with Auror—" And that's when the true weight of her situation came crashing down on her.

She had no idea what had happened to Auror. After all that happened in the forest the night before, everything that she had done to find him had been in vain, and now she was paying for it. She desperately hoped that he found his way back to her property, but she knew that there would be no way to know for sure until she returned home. _But why on Earth didn't I just think like that _before_ and prevent myself from getting into this whole mess? Auror is capable and intelligent—why did I worry so much?_ Hermione sighed. Even as she berated herself, she knew that she would never have been able to allow Auror to go into the forest's abyss without some attempt on her part to bring him home; he meant too much to her. She laughed, mirthlessly, and asked, "Do you know what you're doing to me, Auror?" She scoffed, and continued. "I just hope that someone finds you when you bring your sorry hide home and has the patience to lure you into the stables—"

Ron. Ron and Ginny and Harry.

Her hands quickly rose to her mouth, but whether it was an attempt to contain her gasp or to help prevent herself from vomiting, she wasn't sure. Suddenly, her stomach was raging in knots, and her head felt light. They would come looking for her, she realized once again. What would they think when she was nowhere to be found?

"Oh, Ron," she breathed. "What will you—what will you…" She held her head in her hands and felt her tears brimming at the corners of her eyes. "What if I don't find a way to make it out of here in time? What if the bank collectors take away my home and Auror and Ronan are sold and the Weasleys pronounce me dead and—"

Hermione gripped the hem of her dress, inhaling deeply and shutting her eyes against her thoughts. She couldn't think like that, not now, or she would surely break down and draw suspicion. She was surely growing all the more conspicuous now, as she sat in the bathroom whispering to herself for goodness knew how long. Hermione was suddenly grateful for the ladies' idle chatter, and knew that it was the only reason she had not been checked on as of yet.

"Get a hold of yourself, Hermione." She breathed deeply and gently dabbed at her eyes, checking to see that no tears had escaped. Gently, she pulled herself up to the mirror, where she inspected the damage. Bracing herself with the sink, she took yet another few calming breaths, and focused on acting out her cheerful demeanor once she returned among the servants. Staring at the mirror, Hermione drew herself up to her full stature, and swallowed. "I will not waste anymore time thinking on this diary or this traitor or this Prince." She looked to the door, and noticed that the prattling had grown louder. "I want to help my new friends, but my true friends need me more." She turned back to the mirror. "I need to escape, and from now on, that will be my full focus. There will be plenty of time to unravel later."

_While in Ron's loving embrace?_ Hermione bit her lips as the voice from the back of her mind suddenly mocked her. She had forgotten about Ron's proposal, and she had no idea from where this awkward reminder had sprouted. What would she say to him when she returned?

"Miss Granger?" She heard Lavender call from the other room. "Are you all right?"

_There will be time to figure that out later_, Hermione nodded decisively. _It won't matter what my feelings are for Ron if I never make it out of this castle._

Without further delay, Hermione made her way into the bedroom, managing a genuine smile as she entered. "I'm fine," Hermione said with as much pleasant conviction as she could muster. "And please, I asked you to call me Hermione." She stopped once she saw the gathering that was taking place on top of her comforter. "What's going on?" She looked around at the assorted bureaus and other objects huddled about her bed, all seeming to bubble with excitement. Lavender was beaming.

"Well," Parvati started suggestively. "It looks like you're in for a lovely surprise!"

"What do you mean?" Hermione cocked an eyebrow, looking curiously from object to object. She tried to stifle the sliver of anxiety that began creeping back into her thoughts.

"Hermione," Lavender began, literally teetering with excitement. Her drawers began rocking in and out of their sockets as she danced around the floor. "You've been invited to dine with the Master tonight!"

Hermione looked to the others, who were all awaiting her reaction with starved looks. Hermione paused, taking a moment to register this news, then smiled broadly and asked, "Oh? Is that so?" Before she knew it, the ladies on her bedspread had begun bombarding her wardrobe plans, hairstyle suggestions, and tips on how to soothe the Master's ego. Hermione nodded appropriately in all the right places, but used this time as an opportunity to organize her thoughts.

She would escape _tonight_.

**

* * *

AN: **Also, I must have forgotten to credit Cynthia Heimel for her quote in the previous chapter. I love this saying and I wanted to incorporate it into the story somehow, for some reason: "When in doubt, make a fool of yourself. There is a microscopically thin line between being brilliantly creative and acting like the most gigantic idiot on earth. So what the hell, leap." Looking back on it now, it really wasn't relevant, but it meant a lot to me, and so I had Blaise use it. I also don't know what on Earth I was thinking with that prophecy. I know it made sense to me five years ago, but now I'm can't make heads or tails of it, so I went back and cut it out. I'll try to rectify this in upcoming chapters, as well.

This chapter is obviously much shorter than the previous chapters. I don't know if this will be the case from here on out, but I've learned from experience over the past few years that pulling out smaller portions of writing is much easier to manage than forcing myself to produce huge bouts of writing one at a time. It helps to keep myself motivated, and as I dearly want this story to eventually be finished, it's quite possible that this may happen.

Please let me know what you think! It's been a long time since I've really gotten into this fic and any suggestions or comments would be greatly appreciated!


	8. Bolt

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**AN:** I still can't get over how much my writing style has changed since Chapter 6... It's unbelievable what five years and lots of practice can do. I can't believe how parenthesis-crazy I was, especially. My writing has definitely improved, and I'm excited to get back into this story. Please take a moment after you finish to drop your thoughts in a review! :) Thanks.

* * *

"This is stupid," Draco huffed. McGonagall swore she nearly saw smoke dispersing from his nostrils.

"Enough, Draco," Snape drawled from his spot on the ledge above the hearth. "We've already discussed this—mealtimes are perfect opportunities to make acquaintances, and I need not remind you how desperately we need to learn more about this individual in particular." Draco paced back and forth on the rug wildly, growling deep and low.

"The more you see her, the better our chances," McGonagall said sternly, looking at him over the rims of her glasses. Her "no-nonsense" attitude was set even more firmly in place after the previous night's happenings, and Dean sent both her and Sir Snape a wary glance from his spot further down the ledge. Unused to being so close to so many authoritative figures of the castle all at once, Dean was especially mindful of his behavior. _Blaise, _Dean pleaded mentally. _Just hurry up and bring Hermione down already! _Dean knew from countless stories from the servant quarters that the Master was always testy, but Dean hoped that he would not have to witness his wrath firsthand.

"Dean," McGonagall cut through his thoughts. "I asked you how your progress was going with Miss Granger. Has Blaise been doing his part?" Even through the firelight, Dean could see Madam McGonagall's threaded brow rise. Dean turned to Sir Snape with a start, only to find him waiting impatiently, and to the Master, who had paused his stalking about the carpet and seared him with a scowl. Dean gulped.

"Uh, yes," Dean started. "Yes, Madam. Blaise and I have spent most of the day with her. We've mostly been introducing her to castle life and allowing her to rest, but we do believe we have been making a favorable impression upon her." Dean almost wanted to mention that Hermione seemed to be a pleasantly decent girl, but felt his bristles rise on end under the Prince's gaze, and decided against it.

"Good," McGonagall stated briskly. "And what of the Master? Have you mentioned anything of him?" Draco eyed Dean suspiciously, and Dean gulped once more.

"Not as of yet, Madam," Dean said nervously, as Prince Draco began to growl. "But we know for a fact that the ladies upstairs kept her busy with talk of Prince Draco since the announcement of the dinner invitation was made this afternoon." His eyes shifted to the Master, and back to Madam McGonagall. Feeling his nerves grow no calmer, he added, "Though Blaise and I do intend to have a conversation tomorrow about the progression of tonight's events, and use that time to form an admirable impression on her of the Master."

"Indeed," Sir Snape said silkily, sharing a glance with Madam McGonagall. "Draco, the castle is doing all that they can to assist you in this predicament, and are willing to go to great lengths to ensure your success," he stared at the creature below pointedly. "Please remember that while she is in your presence." Draco snarled, biting the air to release his frustration.

"Don't I have any say in this?"

"No," McGonagall and Snape replied in unison. Draco shook his head, huffing out another bout of air.

"Midas!" Draco roared. "Midas, what's taking this girl so long?"

"You sent Midas on an errand, your Majesty," Snape reminded him. Dean thought he sounded bored, and looked nervously to the Prince for his reaction. It was no secret that Sir Snape had a certain influence over the Master, but it was unsettling for Dean to observe it directly; Dean was sure that Prince Draco could lash out at any moment and make him into nothing more than Pewter bits. "Or do you not recall that you sent him to check the perimeter of the castle grounds?" Draco turned away sharply.

"Then who's supposed to be bringing her to me?"

"Mr. Blaise Zabini will be escorting Miss Granger,"Sir Snape responded with the same languid tone.

"I don't know who that is," Draco snapped.

"He's one of your servants," Madam McGonagall countered. "He and Mr. Dean Thomas," she gestured with the tip of her hat to the paintbrush, who was now shaking imperceptibly in his bristles. "Were the first to introduce themselves, and she has attached herself to them quite easily. They are now to be her main guides through the castle, and your main liaisons to courting her." Dean thought he saw the Master flinch, but couldn't be sure.

"And this Blaise servant," Draco ground out through his jagged teeth. "Would be _where_?"

"En route to this dining room," McGonagall replied patiently.

"That is," Sir Snape interjected sardonically. "Unless you've scared her away entirely with your behavior from last night."

Draco rounded on the cauldron with a warning growl, and had opened his long snout to spit something back at his mentor when a knock sounded on the door. The room grew silent and all eyes immediately turned to the entryway. Prince Draco scanned the open doorway, searching for the peasant's muddy scent, but saw a lone candlestick instead. His eyes narrowed.

"Good evening, Blaise," Madam McGonagall said slowly, looking at the empty space behind him.

"Ah, good evening, your highness," Blaise bowed so deeply that his flame brushed the carpet. With a slight sputter, Blaise hastily raised himself up, and tried to ignore the slightly singed threads that he had burnt. He cleared his throat, as if perhaps in an attempt to regain his dignity, and waited to be addressed further, fidgeting nervously with his wick. Draco was already impatient enough.

"_Well_?"

"Well," Blaise swallowed. "When I arrived at Miss Hermione Granger's room this evening to retrieve her," Blaise inhaled deeply and in one rapid breath he released, "shewasnotthere." He froze.

"I beg your pardon?" Madam McGonagall breathed. "Surely you mean to say that she was elsewhere in the castle." Blaise shifted his gaze to horror-struck Dean and then back to McGonagall, whose point was rising so taut it was nearly ripping the

fabric.

"No, Madam," Blaise said levelly. Blaise bowed in Draco's direction once more, less deeply this time. "She's gone."

Snape, McGonagall, and Dean turned to the Master at once, prepared and yet not prepared for the ferocious roar that cut its way from Draco's throat. Dean cowered back against the wall and Blaise jumped into the shadows of the door frame, both panting wildly. McGonagall and Snape called after Draco as he rose up onto his hind legs and snarled at the window.

"Midas!" Draco summoned the owl through his howl.

Next thing Dean knew, Snape and McGonagall were shouting at Prince Draco all at once, warning him to stay in control, pleading with him to listen to reason, urging him to stave off his impetuousness for one moment and_ think_ before acting, and suddenly Midas swooped in through the open cavity at the window's highest point. Dean wasn't sure if the Master would actually ever harm the owl, but he was still glad that Midas hovered in the air out of the Master's reach.

"Find her!" Draco snarled terribly, his lips reaching so far back that his black gums could be clearly seen underneath. "Immediately! I want to know her exact location." Draco whirled around to face McGonagall and Snape. "Alert the entire castle. I doubt she's been able to make it out of the castle—stand guards at every existing exit—I want this peasant found _now_."

With one last inhale and another glance among the two head figures, McGonagall was off. She sprung herself from the ledge, letting the air carry her down gently, before she scrambled to door.

"Come out of here this instant, Mr. Zabini, and _move_!"

"Yes, Ma'am!"

Snape was waiting for further instruction, while Draco ran back and forth, conjuring claw marks in the upholstery of the seats.

_And of course,_ Dean thought tiredly. _We'll be the ones sewing that up._

"Snape!" Draco shouted, startling Dean. Snape didn't bother to flinch. "I expect to be notified immediately upon her capture. Do not make me wait."

"Yes, sire," Snape bowed as much as his form would allow, and then he, too, dispatched himself from the ledge. Dean, quite unsure as to what he should be doing as well, followed Snape's lead.

"You, the brush," Draco snarled, and Dean swore he might have splintered into two.

"Yes, your highness?"

"Go back to her room, and keep watch."

"Yes, your majesty."

"And be quick, fool!"

And with that, Dean scurried from the room. Snape paused at the doorway, considered something for a moment, and then disappeared into the shadows.

Draco looked after him for a moment, still breathing heavily. He looked around, noticing with disdain that he was alone again. _Always_, he thought venomously. _But it's better this way_.

His breathing had calmed slightly, but his heart was still beating madly. He would never grow accustomed to this unfamiliar body, or to these exaggerated organs, but he knew the power of his strength and had learned to hone his senses enough to prove useful. Sniffing the air, he searched for the one scent he least wanted to find, and emitted a low growl once it was traceable. Crouching low, Draco sprung himself toward the window, tearing apart the metal latch, and launching himself onto the snow-covered roof top of the closest tower. From this vantage point, he could only see trees for miles. He sniffed the air again, feeling the snow permeate his fur and the icy wind bite into his skin. His glassy gray eyes needed no adjustment with the brightness of the snow, but his nose was thrown off by the thrashing winds.

"You can run little girl," he growled, but it turned into malicious laughter. "You can try."

* * *

"Oh god," Hermione tried to swallow through her wild panting. She had just made it past the first line of trees when she heard a blood-curdling roar from deep within one of the higher peaks of the castle. Hermione felt her knees go weak, and she nearly fell into the deep blanket of snow, but she latched onto the trunk of a tree for support, and used it to propel herself onward without a second thought.

* * *

The castle was simply one giant maelstrom of utter chaos. Servants were checking every room, every closet, every corridor imaginable. Some were trying to be more discreet, so as not to push Miss Granger further into hiding, while others had thrown all caution to the wind to call after her as they ran about aimlessly. Blaise swung from window to window, staring deeply into the forest.

"What're you doing, mate?" Dean asked, incredulously. "She could be anywhere! Stop staring out the window and help us, already."

"She's already in the forest," Blaise said simply. Dean stepped back.

"What?"

"Look," Blaise said quietly, as he gently tapped one of the lower segments of the window. It opened willingly, and Dean merely stared. "We're on the first floor, not more then ten feet from the ground. What do you want to bet she slipped out one of these, and tried to climb down?"

"Damn," Dean breathed, still staring at the window with disbelief. Blaised peered through the opening.

"She's out there... If she got a good enough start, she may just make it back to her village before the Master catches on and realizes that he underestimated her. If she didn't? Well..." Blaise turned back to look at Dean, who swallowed. "Let's just hope she did."

* * *

"That's the last of them," a man in a rough, dark coat shouted from across the clearing. "Ready your horses, men!"

Ron tightened his grip on the reigns, leaning farther into his saddle. He could see the horse's breath spurting out in waves of steam, and Ron ignored the cold that was seeping into his fingers. He gave the horse a pat, and stared intently at the opening in the forest.

"We're coming, Hermione," Ron breathed, feeling the hair on his skin prickling in a way he had never experienced before. "I'm coming."

"A lantern for each!" Another man was shouting out orders while some of the women from town brought flaming torches and lanterns to each of the thirty men assembled on horseback at the borders of Hermione's property. The man continued throwing out demands, but Ron didn't hear. Ginny approached him, and handed him his lantern.

"Good luck," she said softly, holding onto the lantern for a moment longer than was necessary. "And take good care of Ronan." Ron nodded.

"I will."

Ginny turned back to share one more parting glance with Harry, seated atop of another horse of the Weasley family, and ran back to the group of onlooking townspeople.

"And above all else, men, stay together!" The man roared his voice over the crowd, and at last shouted, "Hyah!"

Ron gave Ronan the signal, and he sped off into the trail, the sound of the horses' pounding hooves deafening in his ears.

* * *

Hermione's whole body burned.

But she couldn't stop running. Her lungs had lost the capacity for full, precious breaths long ago, and her muscles were protesting loudly. She had no idea if this path looked familiar, or if she was any closer to her home than she was when she first dove into the forest, but her body had no intention of responding to whatever logic her mind might propose. She was an animal, the prey currently being hunted, and through the raging tangle of incomplete thoughts racing through her mind, Hermione's only goal was to flee.

_Only a little farther_, Hermione's mind screamed. But how could she know that? She couldn't have been running for very long, and her home couldn't have been so close. If anything, she was only barely halfway through the forest. _Just a little more_, her mind kept screaming.

Hermione tried to be on the alert for strange sounds or sights among the trees for signs of animals lurking about, but could barely hear anything over the sound of her own heart drumming. Every so often, she swore she saw a shadow from something moving above, but she only dared look up on one occasion, and had seen nothing. Further, she tripped on a lone root, and landed in a patch of ice. The wind was only knocked out of her for a second, but Hermione's head felt light and dizzy as she rose. She pressed onward, fighting the feeling in her head and the sensations in her legs, and ran toward the continued darkness of the path.

_How did I get here_? Hermione's asked suddenly. _I slid myself out of a window near one of the servants' quarters, or am I hallucinating that?. _The skin at her knees and the heels of her palms suddenly felt tight from where she had fallen on them, to brace herself from the impact of fall once she could not climb the rest of the way down. They prickled, dotted with sharp pebbles and ice, no doubt, but Hermione only ran faster. She was only just beginning to realize how luck she had been to have escaped from the castle ground with such ease... He truly had not thought her capable.

"Thank you, Fates," Hermione barely managed to breathe out as she hurdled over an overgrown root. Her foot caught ice and she sprawled out in the snow once more. As she tore herself upward, she knew that she should not be thanking anything just yet.

* * *

"Damn you, girl," Draco crouched among the trees, sniffing madly in all directions. He growled loudly, and lashed his arm backwards toward a tree, leaving terrible crevasses in the bark. Draco doubled back, prepared to return to the entryway and start anew, when a fortuitous breeze blew a particular scent his way. An awful smile spread across Draco's features, and he nearly cackled as he veered toward the left, deeper into the forest. "You stupid peasant," Draco spoke with the wind. "You're lost."

* * *

Hermione couldn't run any longer. Her head was still whirling and her throat was ragged, and Hermione only paused when she needed to spit out the coppery taste of blood in her mouth, but her whole body was begging to stop. _Please, please, only a little further. _The wind was pulling at her face and her hair, invoking tears that merely freeze along her temples. _Only a little more_...

There was that movement again. With a cry, Hermione pushed herself forward even faster, determined not to look up for even a second. Her skin was prickling with the ice and fear, but she pushed on and on. The movement appeared again, and Hermione's lungs nearly caved in upon themselves. She gasped, but there was no air to take in.

She fell to the ground, directly into a large mountain of soft snow, but the crystals only prickled her skin, seeping into her clothes and chilling her spine as the melted along her ever cooling skin. She coughed horribly, placing a hand in the snow to push herself up and keep running, but her arm gave way to fatigue, and she laid trapped in the snow, unable to get up. Eyes wide with fear, she tried to calm her breathing, but only succeeded in making herself more frantic from the unfamiliar silence in the absence of the wind rushing past her ears. She tried once more to stand and, ever so unsteadily, she rose up with the help of tree branch. Clutching onto it for support, Hermione looked ahead of her.

_What is that noise_? She thought hazily. It sounded like hooves beating against the earth... many of them. _You fool_, she told herself. _It's just the echo of your heartbeat in your ears. Run, you idiot!_ And Hermione meant to, she even took one hand off of the branch to start her journey, when she gazed through the trees, and saw just ten yards in front of her, were two glowing gray eyes. The breath of air she had been about to take never came. Instead she waited, immobile and unable to look away, for an imminent attack. The pounding grew louder.

Hermione shut her eyes for but a second, but the attack never came. Instead, there was a cry of pain, and the pounding grew louder still. Afraid to peek, Hermione hesitated. She opened her eyes quickly, and snapped her head to the spot where she had seen that creature.

_That's not my heart_, Hermione realized. _Those _are_ hooves_. Hermione precariously let go of her branch and took a step closer to the area, sensing that something had happened to the animal. _What if they can help me? _Hermione asked herself, feeling her lightheaded throbbing return. She nearly smiled, but then it turned dark. _What if they won't? _From the sound of the hooves, they were still quite a distance away, seemingly circling a piece of land and looking for something. _I have to take my chances_, Hermione thought, touching her head. _This may be my only opportunity to escape. Even if I'm only trading one Devil for another, I need to—_

"Midas?" Hermione looked up. There he was, flapping just over her head. "Midas, please don't tell—please don't let anyone know where—"

But before she could finish her sentence, Midas had already flown off into the trees to where she thought she had seen the creature. She could see his white wings flapping madly in the wind as he hovered there. Hermione could now hear voices being carried through the wind, speaking of a great animal.

Without thinking, Hermione rushed toward Midas, and examined what was at his feet, gasping once the true realization hit her. There, in the clearing, was the creature who had trapped her in the castle, injured. She could not see the wound, but the stench of blood was so overpowering that it nearly sent her backward. Her hand rushed to her nose to cover the smell, but to no avail. Midas was thrashing wildly in the wind, circling his Master fiercely. Hermione looked up to the wayward path ahead of her and could vaguely see lanterns bobbing among the darkness.

Hermione looked down at the creature at her feet then to the owl above him, and without knowing how or why her mind suddenly came to the conclusion it did, Hermione grabbed the nape of the cloak the creature was wearing, and used the ice below them to drag him into the seclusion of the bushes just two yards away.

_I'll wait until they come to investigate, and just when they start to turn back, I'll call out and ask for help, so as not to startle them,_ Hermione reasoned through her dizziness. Whatever mental clarity she had regained from the additional spurt of adrenaline was being clouded by the pool of blood that was now seeping into her clothes.

Midas was hovering about his Master's shoulder, looking at the wound this way and that. Hermione tried hard not to breathe, and tried even harder not to think about what the beast might have done to her had he been conscious, focusing on waiting for the men to finish the final leg of their path to the clearing.

At last, three men on horseback appeared through the trees, scanning the earth for a corpse.

"Did you see the size of that thing?" The first asked.

"Couldn't have been any normal breed," said another. "Wherever it is, it's badly wounded, no doubt. Those bullets were made of the finest silver ammunition, so that thing's no doubt in pain."

Hermione gasped, looking to the Prince's shoulder. _Silver_... She did not know much about the Prince's history, nor this spell, but she knew enough about werewolf folklore to understand that this supposed bullet was probably much more powerful on this particular creature than they realized. By the time she looked back to the three men, they were finishing their conversation.

"No use in searching for it—we've got more important things to look for! Keep an eye out as we head back, but don't break off alone!" The third one signaled for the others to follow, and they headed off, their beacons of light flowing with them.

"Wait..." Hermione whispered, extending a hand after them. She opened her mouth to call out, to stop them, but couldn't help but look back down at the bleeding figure in the snow. Her eyes had yet to readjust to the new darkness, but she could sense that the blood was leaving quickly. She looked to Midas.

"I don't know if you can understand me," she said, her throat thick. "But I suppose that with everything else I've seen, it wouldn't be too crazy to assume, would it?" The owl shook its head earnestly. Hermioned tried to swallow, her mind reeling once more. "Midas, I need you to go get help. I'm going to try to run and catch up with those men, but not until I know that someone is taking him back to the castle, understand?" Hermione looked deep into the owl's round eyes. "Now go!"

With a flurry of feathers, Midas was gone, and all that was left was Hermione and the bloodied Prince, sitting in the snow. Hermione stared at at the wound, and watched the Prince's labored breathing, but was suddenly afraid to move any further. What if he suddenly woke up? What if he lashed out in his consciousness? What if he died out here in the forest anyway, and she had just given up her only real chance at aid for naught? She pressed her palms into her temples, forcing down the cry that was begging to escape her throat. Her hands felt sticky, and once she looked down at them she nearly vomited.

"You're dying," she told the Prince as she took in the sight of her hands drenched in his blood. She paused for but a moment more, and then without further hesitation, stood and continued to drag the Prince, little by little, through the forest over the smoothest patches of snow and ice with her makeshift sled.

_What am I doing? _She thought disbelievingly, releasing labored grunts as she hit a stubborn root, and hoping that she wasn't disturbing his wound too much. _You were going to kill me earlier, weren't you?_ Her fingers were freezing and her lips were cracking from the wind. _Why do you even deserve any of this?_ Hermione paused to look down at the body, wondering what on Earth possessed her to suddenly want to help the one creature she had just spent the last day and a half plotting to escape from. As she looked at the creature in the snow before her, however, and at the slow pitiful movements of the breath within his ribcage and the limpness of his paws, Hermione knew that she couldn't have left him if she had tried.

"I wouldn't leave you to suffer at the hands of strange men," she told him. "Nor would I allow anyone to find out about your subjects' secrets." She resumed dragging him along slowly, bit by bit. "But don't you worry," she whispered. "I'll still have my escape."

* * *

Hermione wouldn't remember being carried back into the castle or being stripped of her clothes and being plunged into a warm bath; Lavender and Parvati would be the ones to fill her in on most of these details later. Hermione would remember, however, that when she was introduced to this supposed warm bath, the water only felt like daggers of ice. Blaise would told her later that he could hear her screaming from across the castle, but for some reason, she wouldn't be able to remember that either.

"Stop," Hermione demanded. "I need to see him! Give me clothes!" She tried to pull herself over the side of the tub, but the bath servants prodded her back inside, hoping to warm her further. Hermione tried again, managing to overpower the smaller objects this time, and instinctively grabbed a towel to spurn her shivering. Defeated, the servants begged and pleaded, but gave her dry nightclothes to put on anyway, which she readily threw on. Without so much as a preamble, she marched through the doors of her room, a crowd of servants in her midst, and demanded that she be taken to him.

"I'm afraid she might be delusional," one of the servants whispered worriedly from behind. "The color is returning to her skin, but she needs rest!" Another servant lead the way to a room on one of the lower floors. There, Hermione saw him laid on a large mat on the floor by the fire. He, too, was covered in blankets, but was breathing with even more difficulty than before and the fabrics were seeping with so much blood. Hermione stilled, suddenly unsure if she should continue.

"Go on," a figure said from by the fire. Hermione could see that it was Madam McGonagall. "Go on, child."

Hermione approached slowly, now aware that there were countless servants in the room, watching her. _What had I even been planning on doing?_ Hermione shook her head, and tried to clear away her thoughts as she knelt over him. _You silly girl, start using your head!_

"Do you have a blade?" Hermione turned to the servants, questioning. No one came forward immediately, but soon enough a kitchen maid in the shape of a soup pot came from the corner to lend Hermione one of her knives. _Am I really going to do this? _But as soon as the blade touched her hand, her decision was final. With one last look at the Prince's pained face and a silent plea to _something_, Hermione positioned the tip of the blade at the entry point of the bullet. In one single movement, she plunged the blade deeper into the flesh, ignored the wail she had emitted from the creature, and curved the blade upward so that she could feel the bullet dislodging as she pressed the handle down as a lever.

Hermione had slunk back against the wall before she even heard the silver bullet drop to the floor, and the servants cried out in terror as their Master attempted to gain his footing. His half-lidded eyes and his twitching claws frightened Hermione. He stared at her, but he seemed to see nothing at first, and attempted to move closer to where she was standing. Hermione slid farther along the wall, trying desperately not to back herself into a corner but failing, and keeping alert eyes on her once-again predator. The servants in the room screeched and moved about frantically, all moving to and fro without any sense of where was safe.

"Hermione!" She looked up to see that the voice who had called out was now at her feet.

"Blaise!"

"My dear, perhaps you should find a way _out_ of that corner."

"Too late now," she whispered.

In a matter of seconds, the Prince had regained his senses. He stood slowly, as if cautious of damaging any progress, and used his hind legs to bring himself to his full stature. Blaise unconsciously backed up into Hermione's legs, but neither of them noticed. At nearly seven feet tall, Draco was at his most frightening, and he used it to his advantage. He stared down his long nose at the commoner in the corner, emitting a rumbling growl from the deepest part of his throat. Blaise gulped, and Hermione tried to look away.

"You should be more careful with where your filthy hands are, peasant," Draco spat. Hermione stared at him disbelievingly. "If I wanted your filth to touch me, then I would have gone down to your disgusting village and run among your people long ago."

Hermione wasn't sure if it was due to the fatigue, to the near hypothermia, or possibly due to incessant and seemingly impossible conversations with inanimate objects, but Hermione had finally had enough.

"I beg your pardon?" At first, a whisper was all that her torn throat could manage.

Draco, who had already been making his way to the door to retire for the evening, paused and looked back at Hermione's corner incredulously. The servants all took one subtle step back.

"I just saved your life!" Hermione thrust a finger out to point at the mountain blood-soaked make-shift bandages.

Draco couldn't quite seem to comprehend what was happening at first, but once the situation registered, his face curled into a snarling grimace all over again. "What are you talking about?" Draco growled.

Hermione huffed, incredulous. "Did you think that was any ordinary bullet that those men put inside you?" The room looked to the blooded chunk of metal by the fire. "It was silver! You'd be dead right now, if it weren't for me."

Draco shifted his angry gaze back to Hermione, who inhaled sharply at the movement, but managed not to flinch as roughly as before. "How dare you..." Draco spat. "Do you have any idea who you are—"

"You would have died," Hermione insisted. "If you would have preferred that I keep my filthy bumpkin hands to myself, despite my ability in removing a chunk of silver from _your_ torn flesh, then by all means, please make your foolishness known." Draco snarled, coming within feet of where Hermione was standing, but her adrenaline was already sending fresh waves of chemicals into her muscles, and she was feeling so much stronger than she had in the forest. Here, she was still prey and just as likely to receive pain, but now she was armed with her words, which had always been her favorite weapons.

"You insolent wench," Draco spat, his eyes searing into Hermione's face. "You dare challenge me, in my castle, in front of my subjects—"

"I am merely reminding that not five minutes ago, you were near death!" Hermione's face began to burn, and her voice strengthened. "I remove the object which would have been your demise, and you insult me. Is this the appropriate behavior to display royal gratitude? If only I could be graced with such manners in all of life's occasions."

Draco roared even more loudly, stepping closer to Hermione in warning. Blaise was nearly setting the wallpaper on fire, but he was too busy staring up at Hermione in amazement, much like the rest of the servants in the room.

"You _dare_ mock me," Draco sneered. "Let me remind you that you are not free in this castle. You are a prisoner, and an incredibly stupid one at that." Hermione glared at him, her eyes scorching with hatred. "You were already free, and yet you naively returned." Draco laughed mirthlessly. "What? Did you think that after your little act of charity that I might show mercy and release you?" The malicious smile fell. "You disobeyed direct orders, and further made a mockery of my authority." Draco tilted his long head to the side, and crouched low. "I should kill you."

Hermione didn't respond immediately, and first took in the fullness of the room. There were servants from all corners of the castle there... After three years, after so much had changed, was no on really brave enough to stand up to their Master? He was no longer their Prince. He was a spoiled wolfbrat too juiced up on his parents' remaining power, and he needed to be taught a lesson.

She knew it. She was probably going to regret this in the morning.

"I had every right to try to escape," Hermioen said levelly. Her voice was low, but it contained twice the venom. "I_ was_ foolish tonight, and on two separate occasions took great care in saving your life, not because I was hoping for my freedom in exchange—I could have taken that easily once you were wounded—but because for some inexplicable reason, I had enough kindness in my heart to relinquish my freedom in order to make sure the lives and secrets of both you and my new friends were safe, and further that I took the liberty of removing the bullet from your flesh. You should be grateful for both." Her eyes narrowed into slits. "You can do whatever you like, and you can say whatever you want, as I'm sure you have for countless years, but you'll learn very quickly with me, your highness, that commands and threats will only get you so far." And for reasons unknown to Hermione, she took a step forward. She was but an inch away from his snout and facing him eye-to-eye. "Throw me in the dungeons if you like, but a simple title and set of teeth will not be enough to elicit _my_ respect."

There was utter silence. Draco didn't even growl. He glared at Hermione with such force that she was sure he would break free from his silence at any moment and lash out. It took all of her concentration, but she stared back unflinchingly. _What have I just done?_

And just as suddenly, Draco laughed. Hermione eyed him carefully, immediately getting the impression that laughter was more dangerous in the Prince than was his snarling. She didn't like it one bit.

"All right then," Draco, responded, low and dangerous. "Try the dungeons, why don't you. Maybe you'll learn that impertinence and insolence only go so far with _me_." Still staring intently at Hermione's seething expression, he snapped to Blaise at her feet. "Escort her downstairs, I have more important things to attend to." Blaise started to move when Draco warned, "I will know if she is taken elsewhere, so it's best that you follow my orders." He sent such a warning scowl to Blaise that his wick literally melted his candle about a half an inch. Hermione gasped in anger, watching his back as he left the room in shocked silence, her brows furrowing in indignation.

"Oh, and girl," Draco paused at the threshold. "Be aware that your next attempt at escaping won't be so easy." And with that, the door slammed, and Hermione's energy suddenly gave way. She collapsed to her knees, supporting her head with her hands. Servants rushed to her aid on every side.

_I should have left him in that forest to his own devices... so why didn't I?_


	9. Royal Duty

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**AN: **_4/1/2011. _ I've got so many plot bunnies for this story, it's hard to keep them all straight! This story is certainly writing itself with ease... now it's just a matter of transcribing all that into chapters! For all of our sakes, I think I'll forgo my "incredibly-long-chapter" habit and keep to the shorter chapters instead. Thank you so much for your patience and support!

* * *

"You poor dear, you'll fall ill if you go down to the dungeons now! Why—you're not even fully dry yet!"

"Surely the master will make an exception, someone needs to talk to him, where's McGonagall—"

"No," Hermione said slowly, rising to her feet. "You'll all be punished if I go anywhere else. I've already done too many careless things tonight, and I won't allow any of you to suffer for my mistakes."

"But Miss Granger!"

"It's Hermione," she corrected. "And please, let's just go before he comes to check on any of you."

"Hermione, this is madness," Blaise argued. He looked to Hermione's determined, exhausted face, and gave a quick, defeated nod.

"We'll make sure to equip the dungeons, at least." Madam McGonagall appeared from the side, straightening her brim. She turned about and started shouting orders to the other servants to bring blankets and warmer clothes.

"He can put you down there, but he won't bother to check on your comfort level," Blaise explained. "He rarely ever goes down to the lower floors himself."

"That's right," Madam McGonagall said briskly. "And what he won't know, won't hurt him."

"Thank you," Hermione said, staring at the objects at her feet. "I don't know how I can—"

"Don't worry yourself about it, Hermione," said another servant. "Just stay warm and we'll be down to visit when we can."

Hermione watched the servants move about the room with a newfound sense of organization. As Blaise and McGonagall escorted her farther and farther down into the depths of the castle, she couldn't help but wonder what the rotten Prince was doing in the floors above.

* * *

She could hear him before he even rounded the corner in the hallway.

"Mindless, brazen, _out-of-line_—"

The door, still so precariously balanced on its single, abused hinge, finally gave way to its ceaseless torment and fell in defeat with a crash as the Prince plowed through the entrance.

"Draco, what's wrong?"

"An impudent, senseless, _insignificant—_"

"Draco!"

"Insubordinate rural _trash_—"

"_Draco_!"

And finding no other word sufficiently adequate for his cause, Draco emitted a mind-shattering roar. When Pansy removed her hands from her ears, all she saw was his shuddering body half-encased in shadow in the middle of the room, trembling with rage.

What did that girl _do_?

"Draco, are you all right?"

"Does it _look_ like I'm all right?" Draco spat. His vocal chords were still affected by the sounds that had ripped through his throat just moments before, and his voice was perforated with the rumblings of a primitive warning growl.

_Stupid_, Pansy thought to herself, as she watched him rake his claws through an already torn curtain. _Why ask questions you already know the answer to? Just say something worthwhile for once!_

"Draco," Pansy started, reaching to him through the glass pane. "I didn't see what happened. You need to tell me. What did she do?"

"_What_ did she—what she _did—_"

Draco clawed his way through another set of upholstery. Pansy waited, knowing that he would provide further explanation once he calmed himself. It took patience, and by the time Draco had returned to a more controlled state (as well as dissected a great number of throw pillows), the moonbeams had already begun to withdraw from the window.

"What did she say?" For all her knowledge and intuition, Pansy could not bear to wait any longer. Draco seethed in place.

"She insulted me," Draco hissed, curling his claws. "In front of the others... when I showed her _mercy_, after she'd touched me."

She'd _touched_ him?

"She—she _what_?" Pansy's eyes bulged. "So she's dead?" Draco snapped his head toward the mirror.

"She's in the dungeons." Draco's scowl became more pronounced as paced the room.

"So," Pansy said, trying to follow the story. "She's in the dungeons while she awaits her sentence?"

"No!" Draco huffed, his breath visible in the cold of the room. "She's learning a lesson _in the dungeons_. She all but offered the idea herself."

"My," Pansy remarked. "She _is _rather an idiot if she _told_ you to put her there." Draco appeared unsettled by this statement, but she continued. "Did she think it would be more fitting to keep her accommodations here in the castle familiar to that of her own on the other side of the forest?" He scoffed.

"She's a fool. She thought she was standing up to me after what had happened, and she thought that by showing a small display of force, I might taker her earlier words into consideration." Draco laughed mirthlessly at the thought, but this caused Pansy's concern to prickle the back of her neck.

"What earlier words?"

"Idle chatter about gratitude," Draco huffed again. "She made the pitiful mistake of ostentatiously trying to transport my body back to the castle after I'd been shot down by—"

"_What?_"

"—a rag-tag troop of wayward, gun-happy farmers, no doubt. I would have been _fine_, and the stupid girl _would _have had the perfect opportunity to flee, but she insisted that Midas return for aid while—"

"Draco, you were _injured_?"

"Pans, enough, I'm fine." Draco sent her a look of annoyance, which only translated into a primitive rage when sprawled out across his features. "The bullet would have dislodged eventually. She didn't need to go sticking a knife in me." All of a sudden, Pansy laughed derisively, and Draco looked at her in surprise.

"How barbaric," Pansy snickered. "I wonder if she often carries a blade on her person for just such occasions." Draco shifted his gaze elsewhere.

"Possible," he muttered.

"But I still don't understand the whole story," Pansy whispered as her brows knitted together. "You told her she was your prisoner, so she tried to escape? But then you were wounded while hunting her down? And then she tried to _save _you, her captor? And then she tried to make you grateful, but you weren't, so she insulted you, and you threw her in the dungeons?" Draco faltered.

"Pansy, it's not like what you just said." He advanced toward the mirror, gesturing to the doorway, constrained. "She undermined my authority by escaping—"

"So she _did_ escape," Pansy nodded. "But how?" Draco steeled himself.

"I underestimated her," he said with finality, shifting uncomfortably. "It won't happen again."

"So... she's not as dumb as you thought?"

"Hardly. I should just know better than to leave doors and windows open when holding a _prisoner_." Draco shook his head, and collapsed into his nest. "I can just hear my father's voice now." Pansy looked out to him, and felt her heart squeeze.

"Draco, it's not your fault," she pushed. "It's not as if you've held a prisoner before! How were we supposed to know what she would be capable of?" Draco glared.

"This entire predicament is impossible," he spit out, and she could hear the young boy in him once more. It almost made her smile to see him so like him old self, after all that had just happened.

"Of course it feels impossible," Pansy said softly. "You're not meant to hold prisoners, Draco. It's not you." _Finally_, she thought. She had something consoling for once.

But instead, Draco's eyes narrowed and his brows creased. "Then what am I doing, Pans?"

She hesitated, feeling her breath hitch in her throat. What was she supposed to say?

"Well, just think of what your father would say. You're the Prince, and this simple commoner disobeyed your orders and escaped! It _is_ all within your right to hold her captive. The whole act goes against your nature, but it's what you're supposed to do! And you're _doing_ it." She smiled softly. "Think of the boundaries she crossed when she t-touched you. Think of the message she sent to the whole castle when she questioned your authority! This is what _needs_ to happen."

Suddenly, Draco didn't look so sure about the whole situation anymore, and Pansy felt with desperation that he was gradually slipping away from her.

"But for saving my life, Pans?" He whispered. "Stupid bint she may be, but..." He shook his head, unable to finish.

"Her actions were inexcusable," she persisted. "Your reaction was warranted, and you acted according to the station of a Malfoy Prince." Draco remained quiet for a few eternal moments.

"My father had always warned me to keep my emotions in control," he said with heaviness. "Proper Malfoy heirs do not invite the outside world to know their thoughts, to witness their feelings." He turned his head away. "I am not the son I should be."

"Draco, don't be ridiculous," Pansy pleaded. "If anyone would be proud tonight of how you handled that silly, peasant girl, it would be _them_." Draco sat with the silence once more, pondering something beyond Pansy's reach. "Draco, what is it?" He didn't answer at first.

"I still don't remember her name," he stated simply, looking to the window.

"You don't have to have a name to get what you deserve," Pansy said, feeling frustrated with this confusion separating them. If only she could know what he was thinking.

"The fate of this kingdom," he began. "The fate of _my_ kingdom... or what little I have left of it, is resting on my shoulders, and I'm already screwing it up. Just like I've done with everything else."

"Draco, that's not true." She pressed herself against the glass. "You are a good royal with a _good _heart—"

"Then what did I just do, Pansy?" He snapped. "If I had been that girl, I would have gotten myself out of here just as fast, only _I_ would have left me in the snow. She was free, but she came back to prevent the soldiers from finding us. And what do _I_ actually do?—I throw her in the dungeons."

"You have feelings for her," Pansy said, stunned.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said with a snarl. He looked as if he might retch. "She is an ugly creature, disobedient, and self-righteous, and twice as stubborn. I have to see a single admirable quality within her. Even that quality which saved us tonight—her naivete—is a weakness, and a disgraceful trait that only—" He cut off, but Pansy knew what he was going to say.

_That only reminds me of myself_.

"So what now?" Pansy asked.

"Now," Draco said. "I have to get her out of the dungeons. I'll release her in the morning."

"In the morning," Pansy repeated slowly. "But I thought you just said that—"

"I _know_ what I said, Pansy," Draco interrupted. "But she still needs to be taught a lesson. I am the Prince of this castle, and if she thinks she can just waltz in and take over, then she has another thing coming."

And with a flourish of billowing curtains as Draco retreated through the glass door to the outside balcony, Pansy knew that she had been dismissed.


	10. Collaboration

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fan fiction.

**AN: **_4/21/2011. _I'm sorry for the long span of time in between these last updates… I leave for Peru on May 16, so I want to try my best to get out as many chapters as possible before my departure. I won't be back until late June, so here's hoping! As always, please feel free to drop any thoughts, comments, or suggestions in a review! :) I always feel more inspired when I hear what people think about how it's going so far.

Also, as for the title of this chapter? There are subtle implications about the specific word choice, which can be determined from the information below:

(from )  
**col·lab·o·rate **  
_–verb__ (used without object)_  
**2.** to cooperate, usually willingly, with an enemy nation, especially with an enemy occupying one's country.

Thanks!

* * *

_Well done, Hermione. Well done._

Hermione was not unused to the blackness of night that came with living so near to a forest in the outlying countryside, nor was she unused to the soft dissonance of the wandering critters tracing patterns on the walls. McGonagall and her merry band of trinkets had done their best to provide her with comfort in the dankness of her cell, and her limbs were rather warm under her mound of blankets despite the inevitable draft. These matters were appreciated by Hermione, in the strongest sense of the word, but they were far away from her current train of thought.

_Bloody well done._

"I need to find a way to contact the others," she said to herself, trying to drown out the sounds of dripping and crawling. "I wouldn't dare ask them to come look for me, but I need to let them know that I am safe." Hermione hugged her knees closer to her chest, deep in concentration. "But how?"

_And who were those men in the forest? What was it that they were looking for?_

"Hermione?"

A voice startled her from her bitter thoughts, and she cleared her throat to hide her previous daze. "Blaise?" Her voice had gone ragged from the night's events, but her concern leaked through. "What are you doing down here?"

"I just wanted to come look after you, is all." Hermione frowned as he slid through the rusting bars of her prison cell.

"What time is it? You know he'll punish you if he sees you lingering."

"Oh, bollocks, he won't bother to check. Besides, it's been hours, it's nearly dawn."

"Still..."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about my safety, dear Hermione," he said as he hopped to her side. She gave him a dubious look. "Honestly! When it comes right down to it, the Master's temper is no match for my bravery." He waggled his eyebrows, but the impact of the statement was lost in the small cough that escaped from his lips afterward.

"Indeed," Hermione's lip twitched into a near-smile despite her exhaustion. "Which is why you handled yourself so handsomely earlier this evening while we were backed into the corner of that parlor?"

"A facade, I assure you. It wouldn't sit well within the castle hierarchy to have two alpha males, now would it?"

"I suppose not."

"Of course not! Besides, bravery is nothing compared to cunning, and I have plenty of that to spare."

With a mischievous grin, Blaise winked at the girl buried in the mountain of comforters who rolled her eyes, but smiled in spite of herself. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind for next time."

"Next time?" Blaise eyed her in half jest, half wonder. "Do you make putting yourself in danger a habit, milady?" Hermione's expression quickly darkened, and she leaned back against the unforgiving expanse of the stone wall behind her.

"Only just as of recently," she admitted.

_Who _were _those men in the forest? _The thought struck again._ Could they have perhaps been looking for _me_? What have I really lost tonight?_

"Well, my dear Hermione, I assure you that if trouble-making is what you aim for, then look no further for an accomplice." Hermione watched him make an impressive bow, and smiled softly once more, subduing her persistent questions.

"I appreciate your assistance, Blaise," she laughed quietly. "But I'm actually hoping to retire from this lifestyle as soon as possible." Blaise eyed their surroundings with a critical eye, holding his gaze on one of the more intricate spider webs in the corner.

"I understand your hesitation," he said, shifting away from a rodent that scurried about in the corner. "But just as well—please know that my aid—criminal or otherwise—is always at your beck and call!"

"Goodness," Hermione mused. "Offers of collaboration in crime, dexterity in cunning, mentions of experience with services of... a more _physical _nature... You really _do _live a devious life. Is there anything that your impeccable morals won't allow you to do?"

"Physical?" Blaise piped. "Just what are you—oh... _Oh._You wouldn't happen to be referring to the conversation that Dean and I were sharing just yesterday morning, would you? About me... exchanging... things? And... services?" Hermione smiled playfully.

"Perhaps."

Mortified, Blaise's wax features contorted, which Hermione found all the more amusing. "I thought you'd forgotten! Look here, Hermione, just let me explain-I promise that under no real circumstances—"

"Pipe down, Mr. Zabini," called Madam McGonagall as she rounded a corner. "I do not wish to know the explicit details of how you choose to spend your free time, which, you should know, I'm beginning to believe you have entirely too much of."

Hermione hid her smile with her hand as Blaise sheepishly turned to the wall and proceeded to mock his superior with every ounce of his stealth abilities. When her hand rested at her chin, however, Hermione's smile transformed into an abrupt and harrowing cough.

"My dear, you are not faring well." McGonagall was at Hermione's side in an instant, watching with immense disapproval as Hermione steadied her chest with her free hand.

"It seems I have something lodged in my throat," Hermione rasped, ignore the burning sensation she felt at her neck.

"Nonsense," McGonagall cut in. "You're growing ill. The Master should never placed you here—let alone forced you to stay down here for this long. Thank goodness he finally came to his senses and alerted me to release you."

"Release me?" Another cough.

"Indeed," McGonagall's lips pursed. "We need to get you upstairs and into your bed immediately, before you truly catch sickness. No, no, please take the blankets with you, that's right-"

_So that was it_? Hermione thought, perplexed. Blaise and McGonagall were bustling about her, but she couldn't help feeling as if there were suddenly some other force that was controlling her body for her. This couldn't be it. Not after the grand fuss he had made about preserving his dignity at the sake of her well-being. Not after the way that she pushed him the night before.

"Did he... Did he provide any sort of explanation?"

McGonagall and Blaise paused in their handiwork of wrapping the blankets around Hermione's shoulders, and shared a glance. Hermione pondered the intensity of Blaise's surprisingly serious expression and the strain within McGonagall's dark eyes.

"I'm sorry, child," McGonagall said more softly, resuming her work with folding the blankets more securely around her frame. "But the Master does not... apologize. At least, not easily."

Hermione looked into McGonagall's eyes for a moment longer, desperately trying to read what lay in their depths. She was sure that the older woman was trying to gauge her reaction, to read her thoughts, and Hermione could only wonder what might be so important to her. Feeling herself at an impasse, she nodded gently, and unsteadily pulled herself to her feet.

"I understand," she said quietly. "I'm not entirely sure what the general expectation was, but I know that I was not expecting to see upper floors of the castle ever again, so this is actually quite an improvement." Hermione turned to the hat on the floor with a rueful smile, and with what she hoped look like sincere relief, but McGonagall did not seem any less displeased. "In a way," Hermione scoffed. "I suppose choosing to let someone _not _die in a deserted prison cell is something of an apology." She quelled the growing bitterness that threatened to creep back into her thoughts, and instead, turned to Blaise. "I'm just sorry that now I will have no choice but to disappoint you, Blaise... it seems that my career in imprisonment was short-lived."

"It seems that we'll just have to make do," Blaise lamented with a dramatic flourish. He bounced to the cell door that McGonagall had just opened, and dragged the corner of one of her many blankets with the handle of his base. McGonagall rolled her eyes, but managed to keep her comments to herself.

As she passed through the dungeon's door, Hermione glanced back at the dreary cell behind her, hearing but not hearing Blaise's muffled chatter of "a new life."

_ I don't know where those men came from or what their purposes were_. _And for now, there's nothing I can do about them... I was a fool, but I shall not make that mistake again._

If another moment of escape presented itself to her, she would take it.

Without hesitation.

* * *

"Ah-_choo_!"

"Miss Granger!"

"Hermione!"

"You're back!"

And such was the way that Hermione was greeted into the kitchen for breakfast. After another few pointed words from McGonagall, a fresh set of nightclothes, and a blissful, exhaustion-induced sleep that she had been denied in the dungeons, Hermione greeted her audience clad in a dress that was forced upon her by Parvati and Lavender, and with a billowing sneeze.

"Good morning, everyone," she managed to say with watery eyes.

"How are you feeling, child? Would you care for a cup of tea?"

"Please, sit down, Miss Granger!"

"Hermione, I'm so glad you're with us again!" Dean appeared on the tabletop just as Hermione found herself seated. "We were all so worried."

"Good morning, Dean," Hermione replied graciously. "I'm faring much better now, thank you." She looked around the kitchen at all of the marvelous creatures around her, stricken by the number of objects who had come to see her. "And thank you to all of you, for your help last night."

"Speak nothing of it, Miss Granger," said a burly pot from the stove. "Anything for a lady like you."

"Indeed, Miss Granger," said a delicate piece of china from a nearby counter. "It was the least we could do."

"Speaking of what we could do," said Seamus, who appeared at Hermione's side. "We've all made you a fine breakfast this morning and we'd love for you to enjoy it."

"Oh, why thank—"

"Not at all, Miss Granger, it's our pleasure!"

"Please," Hermione said slowly, and with clarity. "Call me _Hermione_."

"Well, Hermione," Dean smiled broadly. "You've certainly given us all quite a bit to talk about here in the castle. It's not often that something this exciting happens every day."

Hermione looked at him blandly. _What on earth do you mean? You're a talking paintbrush. _But then the reality of what he had said hit her, and she inwardly groaned. "Oh," Hermione said with dismay, running a hand the no longer neat bun that her hairbrush had prepared for her. "Yes, I do suppose I let myself get carried away, unfortunately."

"Nonsense, Hermione!" A napkin to her left cried.

"Not necessarily, Hermione," Dean countered. "It's just that nobody's ever talked to him like that before—"

"Not even Sir _Snape_!"

"—And it's, well... a little overdue." Dean unconsciously checked his surroundings and pressed on. "We're so sorry that you had to spend the night in the dungeons, Hermione, and we hope that our assistance made it a little easier on you... But what you did was amazing."

"Yes, miss!" Said one of the larger miniature teacups. "You're very brave." It shyly shuffled itself in its spot on the table, and Hermione smiled sadly.

"Yet very silly, for getting myself wound up in the dungeons for the night." She placed her chin in her hands and gave a short, mirthless laugh. "Serves me right for essentially inviting the idea."

"Don't kid yourself, Hermione, that was a rotten thing for him to do," said Blaise as he appeared at the edge of the kitchen and loudly hopped his way to Dean's left.

"Mate," Dean said in surprise. "_You _were almostlate for breakfast?"

"I overslept," Blaise sniffed haughtily. "It happens. Besides, I was assisting a certain _someone _in a certain _location_ due to a certain _sentence _for most of the night while you were 'guarding the room,' thank you."

"But," Dean replied incredulously. "It's _food_. You never miss a meal!"

"And I'm here now," he replied smoothly. "And so I never shall." Dean shook his head, but someone was already picking up Blaise's speech. It was the grave tone from the familiar drawl of Sir Snape, that caught Hermione off-guard, and before she knew it, her laughter had converted into rapt attention.

"Enough of this," Sir Snape commanded as he emerged from the shadows of a dark corner, where had been lurking. Hermione could swear that she heard Dean mutter "hedonistic buffoon" under his breath, but no one else seemed to notice anything other than Snape's intense scowl.

"Hermione, what you did last night surprised all of us, and no one more than the Master himself. He has great power, but that does not mean that you are without your own. While I would not recommend _suggesting _punishment again, as you did last night," Snape paused to offer her a tired scowl and a pointed glare, and Hermione felt her breath freeze in her lungs. "What you did was significant. Likewise, while his reaction was not surprising, it was inexcusable." Sir Snape lowered his eyes. "Perhaps not among royalty, but certainly among greater men."

The air had grown thick with tension so quickly, so heavy with a bitterness that reached all of these creatures, a bitterness that Hermione could only share a taste of, that she felt compelled to slice through it, lest she lose herself in that moment.

"I'm sorry," Hermione said with a repentant smile, tearing herself from this unnerving daze and feeling a rush of shame wash over her. "I'm very much in agreement, and I should have known to bite my tongue. I shouldn't have expected any better results after insulting someone with such little maturity and such great authority."

"Hmmm," Snape said slowly, his scowl unchanged and lips barely moving. "Indeed." And with that, Snape turned for the exit, snapped at the servants to get back to work, and he was gone.

Whatever this was, this spell that momentarily captivated the room of servants, it was broken. Hermione felt relieved, but remained wary; there were too many mysteries appearing before her in this castle, and she feared that she would never find the answers she sought. And for some reason, she found that she could not relax around this Snape; she couldn't place it, but something about his tone and character evoked these feelings of indignation and defensiveness.

_And I thought it was just the _Prince_ who fell victim to mood swings._.. _Apparently it's the whole kingdom!_

"It's a wonder you came back, Hermione," said the same teacup with undeniable gratitude, and Hermione immediately felt guilty for her judgmental thoughts.

Many of the expressions in the room had taken on a wistful glaze at the youth's statement, revealing traces of a sense of long-forgotten hope. _Perhaps this girl was truly the one to break the spell after all?_ They wondered. Hermione, however, did not notice, for she was too busy looking into the teacup that she now cradled in her hands. "I wonder at the very same thing, myself, to be honest," she whispered.

"You're not going to try to leave us again, Hermione, are you?"

Hermione stared at the cup, biting her lip, torn by the child's hopeful face. "I have so many other loved ones to take care of back home," she said softly. "I'm sorry, little one, but I can't promise that. You've all been very kind to me, and I can't tell you how much I appreciate everything that you've done for me." She looked around the kitchen, and the servants were all listening. "I'll do whatever is in my power to help you transform back into your human selves—"

"Well, there _is_ something you can do!" The little teacup proffered. "All you have to do is get the Prince to—"

"—to find the cure," said a mothering teapot before anyone else could interject. "Pardon me, Madam, but I'm Katie Bell, at your service. The gypsy never told us the real cure"—the teacup started to protest, but the pot sent a warning look, and it became silent—"but we are grateful for your thoughts, Miss Hermione."

Hermione smiled sadly again, and gave another mirthless laugh, nodding. "Unfortunately, it's clear that Prince… Malfoy, is it? It's clear that he would rather I not be anywhere near this place, and to be honest, it's quite reciprocated. I dearly miss my friends and family back home… they have no idea where I am, and I must go back to them as soon as possible." She frowned into her cup's face. "I'm sorry... I don't even know your name."

"It's Colin," the cup supplied dejectedly. "Colin Creevey." Hermione smiled.

"Well, Colin," she prodded. "I'll be sure to make my stay here as meaningful as possible, for however long that may be."

There was a tense silence that rose among the other servants again, but Hermione was still immersed in the conversation with her newfound friend. Colin offered her a small smile and gestured that she take a sip of the warm brew he was holding, but as soon as he was out of her line of vision, he let his face fall and confess his blatant disappointment. Hermione sipped her tea from the cup, deep in thought, and the servants made their silent decisions that it was finally time to return to work.

And so this is how it came to be that breakfast time on this day was spoiled, and the rest of the morning passed by gloomily.

* * *

"I promise," Hermione insisted.

"But," Blaise countered. "Are you positive? We have all sorts of activities planned!"

"Really," she pressed. "I would just like to rest in my room for a bit. It was a long night." He was distraught.

"Come on now, Blaise," Dean said, exasperated. "We can come back in the afternoon. Right, Hermione?"

"Of course," she said, not able to turn down his earnest face, but at the same time simply _willing _them to just _leave_ already.

"See?" Dean said victoriously. "We'll be back soon!"

"Very soon!" Blaise said joyfully. "With an itinerary!"

Hermione lazily waved goodbye, a combination of disbelief and bemusement on her features. As soon as she stepped into the room, she braced herself to be attacked by her furniture, which were no doubt sure to scold her for letting her hair come loose. It seemed, however, that her companions had taken their leave to the gossip of the servants' quarters, and Hermione was instantly grateful. Releasing a tremendous sigh of relief, she rotated her shoulders uncomfortably, marveling at how even the simplest dress in their selection could still feel so disagreeable against her skin.

She immediately froze upon hearing a noise behind her and prepared to make a mad dash down the hallway at the first sign of danger. After a few brief moments of silence, Hermione heard the sound again.

"Midas?" She spun on her heels. There on the foot board of the bed, Midas was perched contentedly and staring at her. Moving slowly, she placed a hand on her hip, and eyed him suspiciously. "_You_ again. I'm not sure if I'm supposed to trust you or resent you." Midas cocked his head to the side, in what Hermione told herself was alarm. "That's what I said. Just last night, you went and got the others when I asked you to, but I obviously cannot know your true intentions. You could have done it solely for the sake of your Master." She advanced toward the bed, keeping her steps small and cautious. "And who was it that lured me here in the first place?"

Midas leaped from his perch, glided across the air, and landed at a window sill. He stared at Hermione, then glanced toward the forest, and then back again. Hermione narrowed her eyes in confusion, and Midas repeated the process.

"I don't know how they ever learned to understand you," Hermione whispered, but she relented and moved toward the window. Midas looked at her earnestly. Or, at least, she thought so. He could very well have been looking at her and thinking that she was a loon. Or more likely, he could very well _not _be thinking of anything at all. Except mice.

Midas had apparently given up hope on trying to make Hermione understand something for the moment, which was all right by her because she was in no mood to translate. With a sigh, Hermione plopped onto the pillows in the nook at the sill, and extended her legs, causing Midas to squawk in distress.

"I'm still upset with you, you know," Hermione told him miserably. "But I suppose I shouldn't have alarmed you just now, no matter what you may or may not deserve." With a sigh, she placed and elbow against the window pane and rested her chin in her palm. "But then again, you're in his _in_-circle," she told the owl absentmindedly. "Who knows what you're here for?"

Midas hopped closer, turning his head all the way around in what Hermione was convinced was confusion.

"It doesn't matter," she said at last. "The only thing that matters right now is that I need to contact the others—ah," Hermione hesitated, eyeing the owl with uncertainty. "I need to contact… Ron. And I don't know how."

By the time Midas moved again, she had actually forgotten about his presence. He left without warning, a flurry of feathers, and left Hermione with her unanswered questions.

"Figures," Hermione whispered, hugging her knees to her chest. "That's what you do best, you silly owl! You fly away and let other people handle life on their own."

She was just about to take her leave to go find Blaise and Dean again when Midas swooped in through a previously unseen compartment near the ceiling, carrying a small scrap of parchment and a quill in his mouth. Stunned, Hermione watched as the owl carefully placed the items on the seat before her, and sat back on its haunches to wait. Hermione glanced at Midas, then back to the parchment.

"Is this…?" Hermione picked up the quill with trepidation. "You've already inked it?" Midas merely cocked his head. "If this is what I think it means," Hermione said pointedly at the owl. "It means that you're giving me the materials to write _one_ letter to the outside, under certain conditions, I'm sure… and that you'll deliver it for me?" No reaction.

Hermione inhaled and exhaled deeply in annoyance, but took hold of the parchment anyway. "You're incredibly frustrating, but… if you can truly understand me? Then you have my sincere thanks."

And without any further prompting from Midas, Hermione looked to the small scrap of paper in the palm of her hand, and wrote.


	11. Game Night

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fan fiction.

**Author's Note:** _5/3/2011_

I leave for Peru on the 16th! (Which means I'm trying to get as many chapters out as humanly possible!) There isn't much direct Hermione/Draco interaction in this chapter or the next chapter because it's going to be setting up the scene, but it's coming soon. ;) And it will be worth it.

In the meantime:

I know now that poker was not invented until the 1820s, which is at least half a century after the story of Beauty & the Best is generally set (the mid-1700s). For some reason, my 14-year-old self did not think it'd be useful to look up that sort of information before publishing a previous chapter. Thus, I will be going back and editing the chapter mentioning Poker Night to meet the more historically-correct adaptations that you will find in this chapter. :)

From _The Everything Casino Gambling Book: Feel Confident, Have Fun, and Win Big! _By Meg Elaine Schneider, Stanley Roberts: "Bingo is a first cousin of the lottery — a game of chance in which players try to match randomly drawn numbers to win. Most historians agree that modern bingo is based on the Italian National Lottery, or Lo Giuoco del Lotto d'Italia, that began in the early 1500s and is still played weekly. The game is believed to have migrated to France, Great Britain, and other parts of Europe in the 1700s. Players were issued special cards marked with rows and columns of numbers; to win, the numbers called had to form a complete row or column on the card."

Bingo? Ha! Who knows how historically accurate my minor incorporation is, but it's worth a shot.

* * *

This was getting ridiculous.

Pansy paced back and forth within her prison, her cage, her hell, and cursed her predicament once more. She was lucky that Draco had been too distracted with the young lout to think twice about her less-than-subtle inquiries about the castle's recent events, and thus too distracted to catch on to her pitiful secret. The secret that she had been harboring now for two nights...

That she _still _could not see the girl.

It was preposterous; when the gypsy left her on this unforgiving plane, she had granted Pansy with the ability to reach beyond the grounds of the castle in order to see what the others could not. She was cursed in this mirror with these powers in order to be Draco's connection to the world, a twisted, ironic testament to the similar role she had played in his life as a mortal.

She alone had been the stable foothold of reality that reminded him of what was outside his small scope of royal upbringing, and from behind her glass barrier she still offered the same, this time revealing what transpired outside of his own monstrosity. Whenever she pleased, she could look out over the expanse of magic to watch the events that occurred away from their palace sanctuary, their tiered purgatory, and relay her visions to the others. For years, her stories of the outside world had fallen on Draco's deaf, bitter ears and his servants' eager ones, and she had not ever encountered any challenge with descrying. Trapped within her tarnished mirror, she could expand her mind's eye to witness all which she could not experience.

Until now.

Pansy moaned as she banged on the glass pane, wishing with all her might to finally get a glance of the young, loathsome girl. What would Draco say once he realized that she had this defect? This missing link, this gaping hole within her magical existence? He had not caught on as of yet, but Pansy knew that once he came to his senses, he would see her weakness, her flaw.

"You stupid girl," Pansy told the unseen female, feeling her jealousy override her despair. "What's so special about you anyway?"

If she ever wanted any chance at seeing this visitor, she had to find a way to reach her mind out further. She had never had any trouble locating an individual before, and this lapse in ability did not sit well with Pansy. She would find a way to see her, she just had to.

Draco would never know of her weakness.

* * *

"I don't understand," Hermione said warily, pausing in the corridor. "You want me to attend your game night?"

"Indeed!" Blaise bounced. "A bit of gambling is enough to cheer anyone up, and you are in sore need of a cheering up party."

"And besides," Dean offered logically. "We need someone to make sure that the luck of the Irish isn't _too _lucky, if you know what I mean."

"Well," Hermione considered. "I'm not fond of the idea of gambling, but I don't suppose I have anything else to do, do I? I might as well join you."

"Not _fond _of gambling? Anything _else _to do?" Blaise sputtered. "What else is there _to _do?"

"Goodness gracious, Blaise," Dean shook his head. "Not everyone is a money-grubbing handle like you are!" Blaise just shook his head in astonishment, ignoring Dean's expectation of a reply. With a sigh, Dean asked, "So what is it that _you _like to do, Hermione?"

_To be outside. To be with my friends and family. To go to the market, or the bookstore. Anything._

"Well," Hermione said thoughtfully, shaking herself from her reverie. "What I really love to do more than anything else is to read."

"Oh," said Dean, surprised.

"You seem like you had expected me to say something else," Hermione observed. Dean looked sheepish.

"Don't worry, it's not as if I had pegged you for another girl like Lavender or Parvati—who are nice and all, but a little... preoccupied—but I guess I'm just sorry that we don't have much here for you to relate to." Dean frowned up at her apologetically as they resumed walking along the corridor. "It's not like we were really prepared to have a visitor after so long."

"Although we should have been," Blaise grumbled darkly under his breath.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," Blaise said. "So... _books _are what you like, you said?" Dean could see the mischievous wheels turning in Blaise' mind, and feared what cock-eyed plan he could be creating.

"Love," Hermione smiled. "I love the outdoors and being with others, but I could literally spend days reading by myself, if someone would let me."

"Indeed," Blaise whispered to himself, pensive with his planning. "Say now, why don't you two run off to the third floor servants' quarters to get a head start on the bingo tourney—"

"Bingo?"

"—and I'll see you in a bit, eh?"

"Where are you going?" Dean called after Blaise as he bustled back down the hallway in the opposite direction. "Oi vey, he's gone." Hermione laughed.

"Well, I guess now neither of us have a choice. We might as well make the best of it." Dean had opened his mouth to reply when Hermione suddenly gave way to another coughing fit.

"Blimey, Hermione," he said worriedly. "Maybe we should get you back to bed." Hermione considered this seriously.

_If I go back to my room now, I can start working on another plan... but if I go under the guise of being ill, I'm sure to have caregivers at every turn. I need to go back when there will be time to think alone_. _And besides, _she glanced about cautiously, feeling against all reason that eyes were boring into her back._ Something about this castle is already making me feel scrutinized enough as it is..._

"Nonsense, Dean," she patted her chest. "I'm all right." Dean was unconvinced.

"Well," he said, with obvious conflict. "If you're absolutely sure?"

"Positively," Hermione asserted.

"Well," Dean said as he turned the corner. "If you're not sick now, you're definitely going to be a whole other kind of sick when you see how much money Seamus is going to try to cheat me out of tonight! The luck of the Irish will be _no more_!"

And with that, Hermione followed a determined Dean down the hallway, wondering what on earth she had just agreed to.

* * *

Sometime shortly thereafter, Hermione found herself thinking that she had never seen a room in such competitive disarray. Precarious towers of marker chips and mountains of decks of game cards were enveloped on the round table by tense, stoic faces eyeing one another suspiciously. As they attempted to inconspicuously evaluate their cards, Hermione could almost imagine the strain in the room swirling around them like a hazy fog of cigar smoke. She sat at her place in the table by Dean quietly, waiting for the progression of the game, and taking this time to investigate her newfound friends further.

Lee Jordan was feisty, and had a boyish, care-free attitude that put Hermione at ease almost instantly. As the Herald, Lee had transformed into a tabard, his typical short coat, which was emblazoned on both the front and back with the same design of twisted animals that she found so disturbing on the door knockers at the castle entrance.

"What, our coat of arms? These chaps?" Lee had joked upon noticing her curious stare. "The eternal struggle among the Four Houses is nothing compared to what happens here with these _Bingo blokes when a skirmish erupts, let me tell you."_

The Four Houses? Her bookish curiosity was surfacing, but when she had tried to get him to elaborate, her voice was soon drowned out by the already bickering voices of her table companions. From that point on, she enjoyed his attempts to provide a commentary for the game as he called the numbers, although his fellow players squashed his hopes at the first sign of any further narration.

The palace scribes, Terry Boot and Anthony Goldstein, were beautifully designed quills and had a strong air of knowledge about them. Lisa Turpin, having been a carder in the castle previously, transformed into a pair of her old weaving tools, complete with a handle and bent wire teeth for brushing and cleaning wool. Michael Corner, the old Hayward, had turned into a pair of hedge cutters, which made playing this game awfully difficult. Luckily, he had the assistance of Zacharias Smith, one of the weaving looms, who could help him place his chips and retrieve his dues.

Dean and Seamus were especially quiet tonight, and Hermione did not fail to miss the fact that they had situated themselves with as much distance between them as humanly possible. Or as inhumanly possible, perhaps.

"So, Miss Hermione," Lee began as he mixed the uncalled bingo chips, trying to break the tension. "Are you enjoying yourself here at the castle?"

"As much as one can, I suppose," she said with a small smile.

"It helps when one has superb company," Blaise declared as he playfully nudged himself at Lee.

"Oi, you," Lee said easily. "The last time you did that, you set me on fire!" Lee showed his singed thread for emphasis. "This better not be here when I'm human again! If I'm not one hundred percent singed-free when I return to my mortal body, I swear you'll be my announcement podium for _months_, Zabini."

"Lee, the next chip, if you wouldn't _mind_?" Anthony was swaying his quill feather impatiently.

"All right, all right, keep your ink in." There was a great mixing of the bingo chips and then, with a flourish, Lee removed one from the pile and called out its name.

"Blimey, I got it again! BINGO!"

"Blast!"

"Absolutely _no_way—"

"Oi, Thomas, it ain't me problem that you're just not any good at—!"

"Take _that_, Finnegan, you lousy cheater!"

Hermione watched in alarm as the table transformed from a class of stoic assortment of knick-knacks to a pack of wild animals, as if it were a rubber band stretched too taut before being released and then converging in on itself without restraint. She immediately jumped back from the fray, watching with growing concern as the skirmish started escalating to a full-out brawl and—was Terry actually _biting _someone?

"Oi, you apes!" Lee raised himself high above the whirling tumble. "If you're gonna fight, take it to the corridor! Out! Out!"

Hermione watched the objects detach themselves from the cluster one by one, until all that was left was a wildly flailing broomstick and a paintbrush so shaken by rage, it appeared as if it were vibrating.

"Is he all right?" Hermione asked, sending a sidelong glance at Blaise.

"Oh, this?" Blaise shrugged nonchalantly. "It's just how those two handle things. Nothing to be concerned about, my dear Hermione."

"Still..."

"Well, then," Blaise said with renewed cheer. "Let us see here what we have next on our list... Ah! We'll be late for our appointment with McGoogle at this rate! _Dean_! Dean, get out of that tussle this instant! We have a schedule to keep!"

Dean lurched himself toward Blaise and Hermione, but not without throwing a "This isn't over, Finnegan—we'll finish this later!" over his shoulder first. The two guides propelled themselves forward, making a beeline for the corridor while Hermione turned herself around to face the objects to offer them her thanks. When she faced them once more, she was surprised to see them all staring at her expectantly.

"May we join you, Miss Hermione?" Lisa asked.

"Um," Hermione began, eyeing Blaise behind her, who appeared to be whispering about something with Dean. "I would like to say yes, but I'm honestly not quite sure where we're going. Blaise?"

"What?" His flame burst upward upon hearing his name. "What, oh very well, you lot can come, but just don't get in our way! I don't need any other reasons for McGonagall or the _Master_to be giving me trouble, you hear?"

"What happened to all that alpha male talk from last night?" Hermione jested playfully with a smirk. She fell into step beside her two escorts as Lisa, Zacharias, and Michael scrambled around her feet. Lee's voice, however, could still be heard cursing down the corridor about a _blasted mess_.

"What, _Blaise_?" Michael snickered. "Now there's a laugh!"

"Oh, hush you, snippy," Blaise huffed. "I need not defend my masculinity to a pair of overgrown scissors. However, I think this argument has already been won today by another party—if any other creature in the castle most closely resembled his highness this evening, it was most certainly none other than Dean himself."

"Me?" Dean said, surprised. "What for?"

"Why, you sure shook with all your might when you were at it with your best mate, now didn't you?" Blaise smiled deviously. "The only other creature I've seen with bristles that uptight and agitated is the Prince himself." A round of good-natured laughter surrounded Hermione.

"There you are, Dean," Zacharias added through gasps for breath. "Next step is to get the roar down pat, and then you'll be top wolf for sure. Just make sure you roar more than speak—that way you won't have to remind us with your makeshift monikers of 'You! Servant!' that you don't remember our names."

Hermione continued their journey down the corridor, watching with interest as another boisterous round of laughter echoed throughout the halls. Her companions began congratulating Zacharias for hitting the nail on the head when she once again got the distinct impression that they were being watched.

As subtly as possible, Hermione glanced up to the higher floors above her, attempting to peer into the shadows. She saw nothing, but even as she followed her friends farther into the castle, she just couldn't shake that feeling that _something _was there.

* * *

"You hear that, Snape?" Draco shook his head with a huff. "Ever since _she _came around, all I have been listening to is their complaints, and their incessant questioning of my character." A despicable sneer crawled into his features, and he peered farther into the light to get a closer look. "They never dared to speak of me this way before."

_At least_, Snape thought with genuine amusement. _Not within your hearing range._

"Is that really what irks you, Sire?" Draco turned on him with a harsh expression, and Snape sighed.

"I'm sure you have suspicions that would suggest otherwise," Draco drawled, eyeing his chef. "What are you implying?"

"I am only just observing that you seem far less distressed with the servants' dissatisfaction with your rule than you are with their apparent affection for _her_." Draco turned away, pausing for a moment as his brows burrowed together.

"Of course they are dissatisfied with my rule," Draco bit out. "My reign is essentially nonexistent. And they are only drawn to her because they believe she will make them human again," Draco said quietly. He inhaled deeply as he watched her laughing with them below, and felt his eyes narrow. "She has nothing else to offer."

"I doubt that such thinking will facilitate your _grossly_ _incomplete_ task of further making her acquaintance, yourself. We've been following her around all day, sire." Snape's heavy brow raised imperceptibly. "Perhaps there is a more _effective_ way of getting to know her? Perchance through actual conversation?"

But Draco was still listening to his servants laugh at his expense, and his dark eyes clouded with malice. "Their attachment isn't deep; it is formed merely from misplaced trust. I have serious doubts that any of them would be expending their energy on this acquaintance if not for such circumstances." Snape sighed heavily.

"The servants admire Miss Granger because she treats them with respect, and listens to them. Perhaps you could instead learn a thing or two from her."

By the time Draco had turned around, prepared to scold and deny, Snape was already gone.

"Coward," Draco muttered under his breath, but couldn't muster the energy to offer any other parting remarks toward his absent mentor. Instead, he focused his concentration the hearty laughter echoing from the floors below. "Well, Snape," he muttered darkly to himself. "Think I don't know what I'm doing, do you?"

_He's right, you dolt. You have no idea._

"Well," Draco's voice dripped in an acidic baritone, ignoring his mental note of caution. His eyes continued to trail the young woman below. "We'll see about that."


	12. Catapult

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Note:** _6/5/2011_

So I unfortunately only got one _Monstrosity_ chapter out before I left for Peru, but I'm back now! This chapter was actually part of a larger chapter originally, but I've decided to just post this little bit for now. The next installment should be out within a few days!

* * *

**Chapter 12: Catapult**

* * *

"Are you kidding?" Blaise whispered with impatience. "It's a fantastic idea!"

"I still don't get it," Dean's face scrunched into confusion. "We already mentioned it before—why not just take her there _now_?"

"Because," Blaise drawled in exasperation, glancing at the young woman chatting with the objects in front of him. "Think of the impact! What good will it do all of us if _we_ present her  
with the library and what magnificence will it do all of us if _he_ presents her with the library?"

"You really think he'll do it?" Dean whispered. "So soon after last night's incident?"

"Well, he bloody better!" Blaise said determinedly. "Time's a-wasting!"

"Blaise," Dean said, perplexed. "It's only been two days."

"My point _exactly_."

_They'll need all the time they can get._

* * *

"Pansy!" Draco stormed into his chambers and immediately accosted the mirror.

"Yes, Draco?"

"I need you to investigate something."

"Oh?" Pansy looked at him sideways, feeling a giddy anxiousness well inside her. It had been so long since he had asked this service of her that she couldn't help but feel a tingle of irrational pride in her position, but she remained cautious of letting herself get too excited... She was used to his mood swings, but last night had ended more abruptly and with even more dissatisfaction than usual; she couldn't let herself get her hopes up. "What did you have in mind?"

"Tell me what you can about the band of men who entered the Forbidden Forest last night," he said with hard eyes. "I want to know what they were up to."

"You think they might have something to do with the girl? Or are you concerned that they might be onto us?" Pansy asked immediately. "If they harness silver ammunition, it could very well be that—"

"Just look," Draco snapped.

Pansy took a moment longer to search his eyes, but only found impatience, and so she closed hers in turn and set to work. Through the blackness behind her lids, she catapulted her mind forward, coming upon a vast network of flashes and lights, each accompanied by a myriad of sounds. Her energy swiveled and pivoted, meandering above this open maze until she found what she was looking for, and descended.

"Find it?" Draco spat impatiently. He didn't like the way Pansy stood so rigidly, or the way her expression was entirely devoid of any semblance of herself. How long had she been standing like that? His brow creased in concern, and his arms slipped from their offensive hold across his front. "Pans?"

"There it is," she whispered, eyes shut.

Draco paused, looking down in surprise to find that his hand had already extended midway to the mirror without his knowing, and snatched it back to his side with a huff. He clenched and unclenched his claws, and shot an appraising glance at his paw as a feeling of warmth stretched through his limb. He turned back to the mirror, watching her speculatively as she continued.

"Ahh," Pansy said, a tight smirk splaying over her features. "She lives in Mad-Eye's town... how quaint."

"And what about the men?" Draco rolled his eyes, claws forgotten. "Where were they from?"

"The same," Pansy whispered, shutting her eyes tighter, as if trying to peer deeper into the landscape. "Interesting. The men who you encountered last night have all dispersed into their homes to rest. They've switched positions now, and there is another band of men pushing westward along the outskirts... They seem to be looking for something." Her head shook slightly. "I need to get closer to be sure."

"I didn't realize that this was going to take all day, Pansy," Draco drawled lazily as he slumped into his nest. Pansy wasn't fooled, however; the malice was gone, and her Draco was back.

Trying only minimally to hide her small smile, Pansy ducked in and out of streets and alleyways, propelling herself through the town, only to come to an immediate halt in the plaza.

"Oh," Pansy said, confused. "It appears that the whole town is in a bustle over this girl... The men—the ones who got to you last night and the ones who are making their way around the perimeter of the forest now—are search parties... for the girl."

Draco sat up slowly, his eyes staring intently ahead. "Indeed. And have they found any sign of her?"

Pansy looked harder, her eyes squeezing shut against him as she listened in on the townspeople. "No, nothing. They're all far too downtrodden to believe that they've gotten close... although, they _were_ close. Weren't they?" Draco deigned not to speak, but the revelation was forgotten when a disgusted sneer suddenly enveloped her features. "My, what an outlandish bunch she's part of. I used to wonder at what kind of world Mad-Eye could have been created from, and my opinion hasn't changed. I can't even see a school."

With a scowl, Draco tilted his head toward the mirror, still gazing into the unseen before him. "Come off it, Pansy," he sighed. "I've already got plenty of reasons to despise her. Figure out if they'll be coming back."

Smile broadening, Pansy readily complied. "They're all wrong with navigation; they're going away from the castle entirely, and from their patterns it looks as if they're going to start spreading out in all the wrong directions. I can keep an eye on them periodically, however... if you'd like." She hoped that the eagerness in her voice didn't irritate his ears as much as it did hers.

"Probably for the best," Draco muttered. Pansy's energy could sense across the distance that he was deliberating about something, but she was so enthralled with the notion of being back in Draco's ultimate confidence that she could barely think on it.

She was momentarily sidetracked, however, by a group of townspeople trooping around a lopsided looking home. It looked as if a small army had taken up residence in this pitiful building as a base for the search. Individuals scattered about the lawn, shouting orders and sharing worried looks, while a smaller trio hung about behind the house, out of sight. A young couple was beckoning to a young man perched in a tall oak, right in the fork in the trunk and a relatively large branch high off the ground. This young man, it seemed, was decidedly ignoring them. His red hair was a horrible contrast to his pale freckles and Pansy sneered with distaste, remembering the days of Draco's perfect complexion and piercing eyes. She was about to turn away, her energy hovering unseen in the air, when she noticed that the young man held something clutched tightly in his fist.

"Peculiar," Pansy whispered. Draco's ears twitched, but he was still lost in thought. She, too, felt herself drawn out of her previous conversation with Draco and into curiosity.

She pulled her energy alongside this young man, calculating his usefulness as he glared at something in the other direction.

"Come on, Ron!"

A young man with dark hair was shouting up at the figure beside her. The man named Ron, however, seemed not to have heard.

"Ron," the woman called. She shared this man's features... Could she be a relative? "You're not doing anyone around here any favors by just brooding up a tree! If you'd like to mope, then that's your choice, but _we've_ already decided." She crossed her arms and shot a fierce scowl at his form. Pansy had to admit that while the red hair and freckles suited this one more, the girl still marred whatever potential prettiness she could have had with those dirty clothes.

"We decided _nothing_," the man beside Pansy said quietly, and she was so surprised to hear him speak that her concentration broke, and her mind's energy slipped two feet lower toward the ground. She shifted herself back upward, glancing curiously at the man's profile.

"Ron, you know Hermione is the planner," the dark haired boy's voice came into focus. He made an attempt to sound lighthearted, but there was a definite swell of concern. He spoke more softly now, and Pansy strained to hear. "The whole town's worried. I'm worried. But we have to trust that Hermione can handle herself for now... Until she can tell us where she is, we don't have much of a choice, anyway... All we can do for now is to just make sure that all of her things are ready for her when she returns."

Pansy looked to the man beside her, but he was persistent in disregarding the two below. It wasn't long before the couple slowly departed from the tree, the young man whispering with the young girl all the way. Pansy started breathing heavily, registering the gravity of what had just been presented to her. Her mind was reeling with questions, and she didn't know where to start.

A sigh from the boy in the tree caused her to jump, and she glared at him as he shifted about. When he saw that the couple was finally out of view, he turned back to the scrap of paper in his hand and opened it. Pansy watched hungrily as he peeled back the corners.

_Ron,_

_I'm safe. I can't explain everything now, but I just want you to know that I'm okay.  
This owl is named Midas, and he is a friend. I can't come back home yet—but I promise  
I'll find a way to come back soon. In the meantime, do not come looking  
for me and please__—_try not to worry.

It wasn't signed, she noticed.

Pans reread the note, trying to absorb the information into the archives of her mind as thoroughly as possible. So, the girl was connected to this boy somehow, was she? And she had already gone into cahoots with Midas to reach him.

She stared at the note, imagining with glee how much Draco would detest the girl even more after a piece of information like this would be brought to his attention. It hadn't even been a full day since her release from the dungeons and she was already sending secret messages out! She snickered derisively, envisioning the faceless girl being thrown back into the forest. _Good riddance._

Pansy turned to the young man once more. _Are they lovers? _She wondered in revulsion. They must suit each other wonderfully, she was sure. _And yet…_ Pansy contemplated. _The note isn't signed... Perhaps she left it blank as a matter of protection? Or perhaps she's just tactless in all of her interactions._ Just as another gratifying image of the girl being discarded from the castle flashed before her eyes, a thought struck her.  
_  
What if... What if_ I_ could help her escape?_

But Pansy immediately squashed it down and covered her hands in her face. _No_, she thought miserably. No matter what happened, the Kingdom needed her. Draco may or may not ever truly care for the girl... _But I couldn't do that. Not to the others. They at least need the_chance…

Suddenly, the full realization of what was happening hit Pansy full force. She was going to _lose_ Draco. To a girl he didn't even know, to a commoner he couldn't stand, to someone who didn't deserve him, and to someone that Pansy could not lay eyes on, let alone _fight_. Blinking back tears and biting the inside of her cheek to keep from alerting Draco to her dismay in the distant spaces of the castle, she stared at the note in the boy's hand with hatred. She could see the girl's script, see her lover, but not her face?

_You may have the prophecy,_ she thought bitterly, glaring at the note. _But he'll never be yours in the way that he's mine.  
_  
"Fat chance," Ron whispered angrily, crumpling the note in his fist and startling Pansy from her reverie. At first, she worried that she'd spoken out loud, and she thought for an impossible moment she wondered if the boy had heard and had responded to her announcement. It became clear quite quickly however, that Ron had merely read the note once more. Pansy stared at the young man with renewed clarity, taking in the jagged angles of his angry features.

"Draco," Pansy called, extending her voice across the magic and through her body in the mirror. She hesitated for but a moment, reconsidering for the consequences... but in the end, she decided to keep this young man, and whoever else his companions were, her little secret. "Draco, I don't see anything else of value down here." She called, not letting her gaze off of the redhead's face. "Is there anything else you would like me to look for?"

What he wouldn't know wouldn't hurt him.

She hoped.


	13. Priorities

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**AN:** _7/15/11_. Thanks so much to Kite1011 and waterflower20 for the consistent reviews! :) I swear, they make my day.

* * *

**Chapter 13: Priorities**

* * *

A search party.

Things were growing more complicated by the minute. With less than three months and counting, he needed to find not only a way to stomach the creature traipsing through his halls, but also to find a way to lure her into a _courtship_ . But it was more than that—not only did he have to put with her agonizing, muddy peasant odor and know-it-all attitude, but now he was also faced with the challenge of ensuring that she stayed _in_ while her would-be saviors stayed _far away_, all while having her fall head over heels for him while he was like _this_.

Apparently, he had to find out more about her. Following her around all day had done nothing but aggravate his nerves, and if he ever wanted to have a chance at saving his kingdom—if he ever wanted a chance to show Snape—then he needed to change tactics.

"Damn," he whispered, thumping his paw on the floor beside him. The stone below it gave into the pressure with a small crack, and Draco glared at his paw, as if it alone were the culprit.

"Draco," Pansy prodded, her form wavering slightly behind the mirror. "I asked if there was anything else that you would like to know about."

Was she still trailing on?

"Ah," Draco said with a wave. "Right. You mentioned the ammunition earlier… Why not check out the silversmith," he suggested, finally breaking from his reverie. "Put an end to this silver bullet debacle once and for all."

"Right!" Pansy replied cheerily, standing a bit straighter. When he glanced her way in curiosity, he could see her eyes darting to and fro behind her lids, but the sky outside his window recaptured his attention. He was almost certain that she was acting a little _too_ strange, but he decided to let her be. "Oh," she said with a frown. Draco turned in his nest to face her, his brows dropping low into a knot between his eyes.

"Well?"

"The majority of the items appear to be harmless," Pansy said softly. "Platters, jewelry, kettles…"

"But?"

"It also appears as if someone has petitioned a rather large order of bullets," Pansy said, licking her lips. She finally opened her eyes.

"Indeed…" Draco tapped his claws against the stone impatiently, mulling this new information over. "I suppose someone may be onto us, after all."

"But Draco, you don't know for sure—"

"Pansy," Draco rolled his eyes. "Weren't you the one just spinning this theory at me when I first arrived? _'But surely Draco, if they harness silver ammunition, it could very well be that_—'"

"I know what I said," Pansy cutting him off, feeling anxiety rise within her. It couldn't be true. "But nothing is _for certain_. I can only tell you what I think I see. Where would they get this kind of information? What makes you so sure certain that these were really intended for _you_?"

"Instinct," he said quietly.

"Instinct!" Pansy countered. "Your instincts have been waffling back and forth all day! First, you're raging at the girl last night for her impudence in touching you last night because it _wasn't_ silver, then you come straight up here to seek confirmation that you had done the right thing—"

"Pansy," Draco growled.

"—which you further ignored and thereby decided to release the girl from the dungeons because it _had to be _silver—"

"_Pansy_."

"This morning I overheard you ranting about letting the girl go too soon because it _wasn't_ fatal, and now—"

"_Pansy_!"

At the sound of his roar, Pansy immediately fell to her knees, and bowed to the ground. "Forgive me, your highness."

Draco stared at the girl on the ground for a moment longer, his hard eyes softening slightly at the sight of her small form. When he felt that she had remained in that position for long enough, and that his ego had been sufficiently soothed, he let his breath come out through his nostrils in a powerful huff that he knew she would understand.

"I don't know how else to explain it," he said as she slowly righted herself. "I just know that what came inside of me yesterday was no ordinary bullet, and it's time for me to stop dancing around reality... in a number of ways. I came here thinking that I would find out more about the girl so I could teach Snape a lesson by doing something... for her." His face twisted slightly. "But now it seems like that my fear has been confirmed: instead of just pulling off this stunt to spite Snape, I really _do _owe her something."

The disgusted look on Pansy's face was painful to see, mostly for the fact that he was sure it mirrored his own. _Damn_, he thought. Under no circumstances will a Malfoy apologize to a peasant... But if he really looked at it all clearly, he knew (and would never admit out loud) that the guilt had already been eating away at him for hours, compelling him to follow her around the castle just looking for an excuse to rationalize his behavior. He had to do something to get rid of it. But what?

"What are you going to do?" Pansy asked, her voice curious and laced with disappointment. It matched his thoughts exactly.

"Hmm," he muttered noncommittally, but he had already started stringing the first threads of his decision. "I should at least make more of an effort to put her more at ease," he began, but stopped when he saw that Pansy looked like he had struck her in the face. "Don't look at me like that!" Draco spat, feeling his hackles rise. His flesh was crawling with discomfort. "Nothing extraordinary, I assure you. Just enough to get this stupid ordeal off my chest."

_Besides. Snape wants me to try to learn more about the dirty peasant, does he? Well, he never said that I had to interact with her. I can rid myself of these pesky feelings without ever saying a word to her.  
_  
"Best to get this done and over with," Draco gritted through his fangs as he strode through the door.

"But Draco, what are you going to do?"

"I don't know," Draco said, pausing at the doorframe. "But until I find out, keep an eye on those men."

"But—"

Without another word, Draco bounded down the hallway, already on the hunt for the dirty scent of the girl.

* * *

Sometime later, when Draco had endured listening to too many useless conversations from the gaggle of servants assigned the girl's stay and was absolutely certain that he could _no longer_ stand any fiber of his being for having spent the remainder of his day lurking about the castle to watch their onerous activities, an intriguing piece of information floated his way.

"Well," the girl began, peering down at the paintbrush beside her in the parlor with a cough. "It's just that... after meeting Terry and Anthony, I'm very interested in seeing all of your artwork."

"Really?" asked the brush. Draco searched his mind for its name, but came up short. Daniel? Or was it Tobias? "What kind of art?"

"All kinds," the girl shrugged, and Draco watched with distaste as she smiled down at his servant. "I mean, this very castle is art itself, but it would be grand to see more than just architecture. You know, your paintings, drawings… I would have expected more paintings in a castle of this size—and with so many artists!"

Draco rolled his eyes from his perch on an upper floor balcony. She was blown away by her bedchambers but was criticizing his lack of art decor? She certainly had her priorities skewed.

"Unfortunately, a great deal of them were sold after the death of the King and Queen," said Lisa Turpin sadly.

"Rest their souls," the other objects chorused in unison. Draco's breath hitched in his throat, but he shook it away after a moment. Still, his claws tightened around the banister.

"These halls used to be filled with fantastic examples of the arts," Lisa continued. "But I'm afraid that when push came to shove, those masterpieces were the first items to go."

"How unfortunate," Hermione commented with a frown. Draco rolled his eyes again, with feeling.

"Yes, indeed," Lisa nodded to herself. "However, we are still fortunate in that we were able to maintain a small percentage of our book collection that—"

"—Books?" Hermione's face lit up instantly, and she actually forgot to take her next step. Her gaze was glued to Lisa's onward-moving form, and her lips began sloping into one of the first genuine smiles she'd felt in days. Draco leaned farther over the banister to listen in. "As in a _library_? Oh, what I would give to—"

"_Mr. Zabini!_"

"I'm doomed."

Hermione paused mid-speech, only to find that Blaise was suddenly using her calf as a shield, albeit a very ineffective one. She raised a brow curiously, watching as he divided his time between hiding from the trembling hat who was now making her way toward them and trying to keep his flame from creeping too close to her skirts.

"Mr. Zabini, you are _late_."

"It wasn't me!" Blaise protested from behind Hermione's left shoe. "I promise that it was serious! You see—it all started when Finnegan—"

"Blaise Zabini, do not _bore_ me with your excuses. I expect nothing less than perfect punctuality from _both _of you, and this constant presentation of a poor impression on our guest is wildly unacceptable."

"But—"

"Not a word, _Mr. Thomas_. I expected you fifteen minutes ago and now those fifteen minutes are gone. For this reason, you two will be getting an early start on your chores tonight and will meet with me again later this evening during a more reasonable hour at _my_ convenience. Do _not _anticipate a meal before our next appointment."

"But—"

"Now," McGonagall turned with a grim smile to Hermione. "I'm sorry, Miss Granger, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to relieve you of your guides for one evening. I'm sure that the other servants would be more than willing to keep you occupied for the rest of the night."

Hermione bowed her head as she gave a polite curtsy, but was surprised to experience a bit of lightheadedness when she resumed her standing position. She touched her fingertips to her temple gingerly, ignoring the slight sense of vertigo that momentarily overcame her.

"Thank you, Madam McGonagall, but I think I'd much rather retire to my room for the night. It seems I'm much more tired than I originally thought."

McGonagall eyed her curiously for a moment, observing the dark circles beginning to form under the girl's eyes, and nodded in agreement. "Yes, dear, I think that'd be for the best. I'm sure that the others would be more than willing to escort you—"

But the servants were already leading her away. McGonagall watched them all but drag the girl with them down the corridor, chatting animatedly all the while, and shook her head, perturbed. By the time she rounded on her two victims once more, Draco had already stopped listening.

_Books_.

Draco leaned back against the banister, clicking his claws against the wood impatiently. He pondered the word for a moment, turning it over in his mind testily, trying to wrap his mind around what he had heard and the potential significance it held.

After quite some time, he threw himself from the railing to the floor and made his way to the Astronomy Tower without hesitation. So she liked to read, did she? Draco skidded to a halt when he came to the stony balcony of the highest tower, and plopped himself on the ledge, heedless of the bank of snow in his path.

He wasn't even sure he believed she knew _how_ to read.

But now he had a clue as to what his next course of action would be; it didn't take a master of observation to note the change in her heartbeat or to notice the way her whole body spiked at the mere notion of a library… For whatever reason, Draco was sure that this was his ticket to a smug victory over Snape and a long-awaited piece of peace and quiet in his castle. All he had to do was just shove her in the right direction, close the door behind her and not look back.

Draco crossed his arms as he thought, realizing with satisfaction that if the broad were really that excited about a stack of books then this could very well be the solution to _many_ of his problems, and he felt his surliness begin ebbing away as he considered the possibilities. _Snape won't be able to say anything once he sees how much better of a mood she's in once we give the thing some toys to occupy herself with—and she'll be out of my hair! Indefinitely! Not to mention that I can finally start to work my way into her good graces if she can learn to shut her trap for more than—_

But the thought stopped cold.

Instead, as Draco looked out into the darkening dusk, he saw the perfect image of his father's face. Draco could only stare back into his Lucius' disapproving gaze for a moment before he lost his strength and had to turn away… but his father's scowl was waiting for him behind his eyelids regardless. Those eyes, so like his own, pierced right through his useless tricks, and told Draco everything he already knew.

_You are weak_, the eyes said.

Draco shook his head to clear the image, but it was no use. He cradled his head in his hands, hating the grotesque feeling of his fur on his cheeks but finding himself unable tear his paws away. _Father, forgive me_, he pleaded. _It's out of my control—it's for my kingdom—_

The memory would not fade. That same penetrating stare, laying bare all of Draco's flaws. _A disappointment_, the eyes of his father shouted. _A disgrace. Unworthy of the Malfoy name. Unworthy of the Malfoy blood._

"No," Draco whispered. "I have no choice now—You don't understand—I don't _want_ her—_I have_ to choose her."

_A Malfoy does not surrender_, the eyes accused. Draco could see his father's scowl clearly—a painful reminder of every mistake, of every deserved punishment. _A Malfoy does not accept an unworthy fate. You are weak. _

"Father, please," Draco shook his head, lost in the memory.

_Blood traitor._

"No," Draco begged silently. "No, I'm _not_. Please understand, father…"

_Better that you remain an animal,_ his father's voice loomed. _Than to taint our lineage with the blood of one_.

"Sire?"

Draco looked up with a start, aggravated that someone had crept up on him so easily. He turned to the intruder with a snarl, only to find Snape supplying him with a rather bored stare. His chest rumbled with a low growl as he waited for Snape to carry on, and his mind was still reeling with the fury of having been caught in yet another vulnerable moment.

_You are weak_.

"What?" Draco snapped. "What is it?"

Snape paused for a moment, examining his disheveled Master with subtle concern that only further irritated the Prince, and cleared his throat. "I was merely coming to check on your progress, your majesty." Snape hopped a little closer. "And to see if there were any ways in which I could assist you."

For a few minutes, all Draco could manage was a sharp stare to the snow-covered treetops in the distance. When he finally did speak, it was with short and clipped tones.

"Bring me the servant named Zabini," Draco said simply, watching the snowflakes dancing in the wind. Snape looked momentarily startled.

"Zabini, Sire? What counsel could you seek with him?"

Draco sent Snape a long, knowing stare.

"It seems that our plans regarding the girl have changed."

* * *

"You summoned me, milord?"

Draco eyed the bowing creature before him carefully, a small smirk grazing his lips. Blaise  
noticeably gulped.

"Two items of special interest have come to my attention," Draco began, slowly pacing before  
the small creature before him in the uppermost tower. Then, in a sudden flash of movement, he crouched down to the floor, snarling at Blaise's dwindling flame with satisfaction. Blaise curled in on himself imperceptibly, not daring to look up. Draco chuckled cruelly under his breath.

"Forgive me, your highness!" Blaise exclaimed, finally taking a peek upward. Draco had raised  
himself onto his haunches once more and was staring down his long snout with a sneer.

"Firstly, you should warn your fellow servants that where the girl is, I will most likely be in hearing range." He lowered his eyes down slowly to Blaise's gaze and smirked once more. "Thus, it would be wise to mind one's tongue when the _Alpha_is present."

Blaise gulped. Again.

"Y-yes, Sire."

"Secondly," Draco stated, resuming his pacing as Blaise released a cautious sigh of relief. "In my research, I have come to realize that the peasant has a supposed interest in art. It is for this reason that you and your merry troop will show her the library. You will escort her there tomorrow, and you will present the library to her as if it were your own idea. You will not mention my involvement, nor will you mention my observation of her." Draco peered down at Blaise's dumbstruck expression. "Understood?"

Blaise was confused.

"Uhm, sir, please do not think me disrespectful or ungrateful for the _tremendous_—positively admirable—effort being shown on your part to court the young miss for our salvation, but would it not be _slightly_ more effective for the wooing process if she were to know, you know, that _you_ are _wooing _her?"

At the sight of Prince Draco's malicious stare, Blaised gulped again.

"But then again, an unknown secret admirer is quite romantic as well—_so I'll be off then_!"

And so he went.


	14. Decisions, Decisions

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes:** _8/1/11_. I've been listening to so much Florence + The Machine lately, and that's honestly been the major inspiration for my writing for the last few weeks. When I write on-going fanfiction, I tend to jump around between chapters… It really just depends on mood, on whether or not dialogue jumps to my mind, or at what point I want to focus on in their growing relationship. Although I haven't been posting many new chapters this month, it doesn't mean that I'm not working hard on upcoming chapters!

Also, for those of you who might be interested in finding regular updates about my writing habits (or just want to know a little bit more about me!), feel free to check out my LiveJournal: **http:/therentyoupay [dot] livejournal [dot] com**

All of my fandom posts are open to the public, but my more personal posts are friend-locked.

Also, I listened to quite a lot of Sara Bareilles' "King of Anything" for this chapter. :) The stanza below belongs to this song.

* * *

**Chapter 14: Decisions, Decisions**

* * *

_so you dare tell me who to be?_

_who died and made you king of anything?_

_all my life I've tried to make everybody happy_  
_while I just hurt and hide_  
_waiting for someone to tell me it's my turn to decide_

_who made you king of anything?_

- "King of Anything," **Sara Bareilles**

* * *

But Hermione didn't get the chance to see the library the next day.

"Blaise, what are we supposed to do?" Dean asked, moving anxiously about the corridor in the morning light. "He wants _us_ to show her the library, but she's in no condition to go anywhere!"

"Bollocks," Blaise said sternly, shifting around the carpet as well. "He won't like to be kept waiting."

"Perhaps… he'll understand?"

Blaise's eyes shifted toward his creative friend dubiously, but didn't reply.

"We should tell him," Dean grumbled, giving up hope. "It only figures—we're going to be the ones getting pummeled for this, when it's really his fault for putting her in the dungeons and getting her sick in the first place."

"Well, I do wish you luck, my good bloke," Blaise supplied more cheerfully.

"What do you mean? I'm not going _alone_."

"Dean, if you do recall, I nearly _croaked _last night. I do think you can handle this one by yourself."

"That doesn't make any—"

"Thanks again, mate! I wish you the best of luck."

But by the time Dean opened his mouth to protest once more, he was alone.

"Oh, _bollocks_."

* * *

Hermione had not left her room since retiring the previous night, and she had no intentions of venturing out for the rest of the afternoon. Instead, she was keeping herself busy by feigning illness and desperately trying to find the time to fashion another daring escape plan, and most certainly _not_ thinking about the dreadful diary anymore. There was no time to break her own moral codes of privacy invasion—_again—_if she were going to find a way out of this place, and she reminded herself of this fact often. She was, after all, aiming for a plan that was "thoroughly-conceived and successful" this time, as opposed to her previous attempt, which could be chalked up to "simply-crafted attempt to not die, but doomed to failure through a distraction by her ungrateful wounded captor, regardless."

However, the servants had been _most _attentive to her throughout the entire day. Her entourage left her alone occasionally, but it was never for more than a few minutes at a time. In and out, around and about, Hermione's eyelids barely had any time to flutter closed before yet another visitor came barreling in to check on their guest. Although she had predicted this situation a few days before (and at the time had subsequently decided to dismiss the possibility of exaggerating her sickness), she had opted for such an attempt this morning after all, in the hopes that luck would be on her side today.

She should have known better.

As she heard the clinking pitter-patter of yet another trinket aid in the hallway, Hermione sprung herself back into the bed in a flurry of down blankets and plush, and scrambled through the covers, twisting in and under the sheets. She closed her eyes just as the door opened a crack behind her, her hard-earned scrap of cloth (_her first prize and future map_) clutched proudly out of sight in the safety of her right palm.

"Goodness, Miss Hermione," the little matronly servant exclaimed as she examined the human girl from every angle. "You're positively burning up and your forehead is awfully clammy." As the aid _tutted_ disapprovingly and shuffled about the floor, Hermione felt that it was finally acceptable to peak at her visitor, and saw that it was Madam Pomfrey, the motherly chair and midwife who she had met earlier that morning. _At least my mad dash around the room was helpful in promoting my little act._ Suddenly, as Madam Pomfrey moved about her quarters, she heard a small train of teacups trail in with their mother teapot. "Oh, wonderful! The poor thing needs some tea in her, that is absolutely certain. Just leave it on the cart—she seems to be resting right now."

"_Aw_, man," little Colin Creevey dismayed quietly, but did as he was told, regardless. To his credit, he didn't spill the tea near her bedside table. Much.

"Hush, hush," the mother teapot murmured as she gathered her offspring around her. "We'll be downstairs if you need anything, Madam Pomfrey."

"Yes, yes," she said distractedly, already working with one of the coat racks to ring out a warm, soaked hand towel. It was later placed on Hermione's already cooling forehead, but she couldn't resist the pleased sigh that escaped her as she relaxed…

Too soon.

A heavy, resounding knock echoed across her stone walls, and Hermione stiffened immediately, letting Madam Pomfrey's words (_"What the devil—?"_) rush over her, and focused on keeping her breathing as even as possible. She swallowed hard, keeping her body utterly still and her face composed, lest he—god forbid—make his way to the other end of the room to see her.

_But that doesn't make sense_, her mind rattled, shaken. _What's he even doing here in the first place? Shouldn't he be off somewhere exploiting young working children this late into the day? _

"My lord?" Madam Pomfrey asked, voicing the confusion that was oozing from Hermione's pores. Hermione had not heard him enter, but she knew he was there, hovering at the frame behind her; she could _sense_ him, feel the tension thicken the air. She found it hard to breathe.

"Evening, Pomfrey," he said in low, clipped tones. "I've come to inquire about the state of the girl."

Hermione's mind blanked as her heart raced, and she channeled all of her energy in keeping her breathing as consistent as possible. Inhale breath, exhale breath, pretend to ignore conversation, repeat. While it did not achieve the desired effect totally, Hermione _was_ able to listen in with a respectable amount of calm.

"My lord, she is resting, as you can see," she stated patiently, though with the hint of accusation that only motherly figures seem capable of producing. "She will be well again by morning, but only if she has been allowed _sufficient _rest."

"Indeed," he replied, and she could feel his eyes boring into her back. _Breathe, breathe!_

"Was there something else with which I could be of assistance?" Madame Pomfrey asked, and Hermione could hear the curiosity pouring from her. She seemed almost… hopeful? "My lord?"

"Very well," the Prince said suddenly, and Hermione heard the swish of his cloak. "I shall now take my leave of you both, and I will entrust her in your care. See to it that she _does_ rest."

"Aye, my lord."

Another rustle of cloth, and Hermione knew he was gone.

She took a few additional moments to let her mind digest this new development, and then gradually began to shift under the covers as if she were waking. Perhaps she _had _been sleeping, and she had merely dreamed the whole encounter, unbeknownst to her aching mind, but she knew that was not the case. Yet why would he come? Why wouldn't he announce her bluff? She could fool his servants, but surely she couldn't fool _him _about something such as an exaggerated illness.

"Ahh, Miss Hermione, you're finally waking," Madam Pomfrey said, realizing now that Hermione had sat up. "How are you feeling, my dear?"

"Confused," she responded honestly. She swallowed a lump in her throat, and tried to sound convincing. "I swore… I swore that I had heard the master's voice just now. But that couldn't possibly be?" She turned to the midwife in anticipation. "Could it?"

Madam Pomfrey had not been expecting that, and she looked just as baffled as Hermione felt. "Indeed, he was," she said with genuine surprise. "He came to check on your health."

"But… why?"

Madam Pomfrey looked away quickly, and lightened her voice. "Your guess is as good as mine." Hermione's puzzled brow furrowed as she considered this.

_What a strange creature._

* * *

"Well executed, sire."

"That girl is such a bloody fraud it's almost comical," Draco sniped. "What a bloody waste of time."

"Come now, Draco," Snape drawled as they sank deeper into the dark corridor. "Surely you must be pleased with your renewed efforts."

"Pleased?" Draco sent the cauldron an incredulous glance. "Hardly."

"At any rate, you have now cleared the way for the next step into moving forward with your companionship… Oh, really, Draco, there's no point in denying what it is."

"There's no need to make it sound like a prison sentence."

"I did nothing of the sort," Snape drawled. "Your attitude is simply allowing you to hear what you expect to hear." To this, Draco offered no response. "Are you prepared to learn of the next task?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Spectacular," Snape enunciated. "I'm glad to see you're finally listening to reason."

* * *

"You're drunk, Ron."

The supposedly intoxicated redhead sat on the sturdy edge of a stone wall outside a very particular house at the fringes of the forest, propped against the strong bark of a giant oak behind him. He glared at Harry hard, who was now glaring at the nearly empty bottle of gin in his freckled hand.

"Harry," Ron started, slurring only marginally. "Look at me. Do I look drunk to you?" Harry paused.

"What you look like is depressed," he said candidly, but not without a hint of camaraderie. "And almost drunk."

"Almost," Ron repeated slowly. "But not quite." And so he took another gloomy swig.

"Ron, come on," Harry chided, his brows furrowing together in consternation. He attempted a small smile as he batted the bottle away from Ron's mouth. "This isn't you at all. You're an _affectionate_ drunk. A ridiculous, prank-pulling, fall-over-your-own-feet kind of drunk. Not a brooding, moping, makes-everyone-worry git of a drunk… What would Hermione say about this?"

"Hermione doesn't like either kind of drunk," Ron turned to him with difficulty.

"Right," Harry continued, feeling impatience mingle with his concern. "Which is why you should go back inside and sleep it off, so that you won't have to disappoint her, eh?"

"But she's not here to stop me," Ron said blankly, ignoring how the cold breeze chilled his skin. _Where did the light go? _He thought distractedly. He remembered looking at a sunrise that morning, the promise of a new day (of a new search), but by the time he stopped again to actually see what was around him, here he was alone, and everything was dark. "That's the point. She's not here, and there's nothing either of us can do about it."

Harry's eyes tightened with worry. "Nothing either of you can do about your fool's mission to drink or about her not being here?"

"Either," he said. Another swig.

"I'm sure she's not going to approve of this when she gets back, however," Harry persisted.

"Who's going to tell her? You?"

"It's possible."

Ron chuckled, but it sounded tired. "All right, all right, god, Harry, you prat. You get what you want. I'll go in and lock up the house, then take my sorry hide to the couch to sleep."

"I could stay the night here, too, if you think you might want the company."

"Nah, nah, s'alright," Ron shrugged him off as he stood, wavering only slightly. "Go back to the Burrow and keep Ginny and my mum company, 'kay? Tell them their bloody disappointment of a son is sobering up and will be responsible and all that." Harry looked doubtful, but acquiesced.

"You know that she's going to appreciate everything you've been doing while she's away," Harry reminded him gently. "Tending to her farm and keeping her valuables safe and all."

Ron made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat as he steered himself up the path to Hermione's home, but didn't offer any further comment on the matter. "G'night, Harry."

With a strained expression, Harry watched him maneuver the stepping-stones, clutching the bottle all the while. They'd been almost just as concerned for Ron's sake the last few days as they'd been for poor Hermione's, and the lack of any legitimate progress (in spite of her secret, mysterious note), was all the more agitating. The town's frantic searching had begun to simmer down after so many empty, dead-end days of pursuit, and Harry worried that they soon might do the unthinkable—they might give up.

"Goodnight, Ron," he said thickly, and watched as his friend closed the door behind him.

* * *

But Ron didn't immediately lock up. Instead, he exited through the back door and stumbled his way to the grassy field where Hermione loved to watch the horizon. He slumped to the earth in a heap, and let his head loll back against the scratchy patches of grass. The sound of crickets soothed him, but the ground was cold and hard, and the bottle was now empty.

He stared up at the sky, marveling in the insurmountable number of stars that blinked back at him. A wintry sky was the clearest, he remembered hazily, and the display was astounding. But marveling at such a vast, overwhelming unknown was too disheartening to do so alone, especially after having consumed an entire bottle of gin, and he desperately wished that Hermione were there to share it with him.

_Share what? The view? Or the gin?_

"Shut up, Harry," Ron mumbled indistinctly as he rubbed his face. Hermione would know what to say to a comment like that; Hermione always seemed to know what to say, didn't she? If she were here, she'd be able to identify the constellations for him, then tell him all about the different myths bound to each design, and he would stare at her in wonder, trying to hear what she was saying, but grow distracted by the simple joy of her voice. If she were here, they would probably argue about something stupid, and he would find a way to make her laugh, and he would watch how her face glowed in the moonlight as she told silly stories about stars, and he would enjoy merely being close to her.

_But she's not here_, he remembered, reaching for the alcohol that was no longer there. His hand dropped to the ground, limp. "Well," Ron murmured to himself as he drifted off to sleep. "My gin has gone and left me, too."

A sound from behind him shattered the sleepy images of silent contentment and stolen kisses, and Ron clumsily moved to his stomach to better inspect the source of the interruption.

"What the…"

Ron rubbed his eyes blurrily at back of Auror and Ronan's stable, hoping to dissipate some of the gin for his foggy state of mind, but the noises continued. He pushed himself up, swaying slightly, and grumbled as he pushed himself the twenty paces he needed to reach the stable entrance. "Blimey, you two," Ron said incredulously from behind his fingers. "If Hermione found out how awful you were behaving—_what the hell are you_?"

He rubbed his eyes once more, more ferociously this time, and tried to calm his beating heart. When he opened his eyes again, the eagle owl was no longer perched atop Auror's stall, but his heart still blasted frantically from his chest. "Blimey," he said to the two horses, as they blinked back at him. "Enough of that, will you?" He then realized that he was being ridiculous—it's not like they could understand him, anyway, no matter how drunk or not drunk he was. "Going crazy," he muttered bitterly to himself as he slipped back outside. He turned to the bottle in his hand with disgust. "This is _your_ fault, you know," he whispered to it.

He started the surprisingly difficult stroll back to Hermione's cottage, tripping on two occasions. "There you go, Harry," he griped quietly. "Back to the falling-over-my-own-feet kind of drunk, just like you wanted, yeah?" He was nearly halfway to the doorway when an inexplicable force jutted through him, pulling from behind, and he felt himself drawn to a halt. It was as if he had walked through a sheet of ice all of a sudden, but just hadn't seemed to notice until was too late. He shook his head in bewilderment then turned back to his bottle. "Fucking crazy, you make me. No more of you for me, just you watch."

Trying to swallow the dryness in his mouth, he turned back to the despicable Forbidden Forest, tracing the patterns of the branches with hardened eyes. When he spoke to the trees, his voice betrayed no trace of alcohol or exhaustion; it was only his voice, deep and full of promise, under the sole influence of determination.

"I know you're in there, Hermione. We'll find you," he vowed. "I'll find you."

After a few moments, the spell was broken, and he finished his short journey back to the cottage door, where he promptly stumbled inside.

Two paces from where he once stood, Pansy's energy hovered soundlessly in the air, mystified.

* * *

"He said _what_?"

"I think it's a fantastic idea!" Lavender chirped to the side.

"Simply marvelous!" Parvati chimed. "Please, Hermione, _please_ say yes!"

"I don't understand," she said slowly, more to herself than to the countless servants surrounding her bed. She had barely woken the next morning, let alone prepared herself for the oncoming day, before a parade of servants assaulted her bed with the most _spectacular_ news; the Prince had once again invited her to dine. "Was I not in the dungeons only two days ago? Did we not come to some sort of agreement that we can't stand the sight of each other?"

"The sight?" A servant clarified from below; it was little Flitwick. "Does his appearance frighten or upset you, Miss Hermione?"

"Oh, nonsense," Hermione scoffed. "His countenance is nothing when compared to his disposition. I could hardly care whether he were a werewolf or an overgrown _pigeon_, were he not such a complete classist misogynist."

Flitwick blinked up at her in uncertainty. "So… his appearance does not strike you as alarming?"

"_Everything _about him strikes me as alarming," Hermione assured him, allowing the bitterness to flow through her words. "But not in a way that frightens me so much as it infuriates me."

"That's… relieving to hear, I suppose."

"But what _really _alarms me," Hermione pressed, seeming to have not heard the servant's latest remark. "Is how he could expect anything good to come of us _dining _with one another! We already find it quite challenging enough to behave civilly when I _don't_ have sharp knives within reach."

Flitwick nervously glanced up at her, reassessing her temper. Perhaps the most alarming individual of this duo was _not_ his master, after all.

"He _insisted_ that you continue to take all other meals in the kitchens, but that you enjoy dinner in his company in the grand dining hall henceforth," McGonagall restated patiently.

"Enjoy?" Hermione asked, crossing her arms. "I'm certain you must have paraphrased that."

"The words, perhaps, are not directly quoted, though the intention is the same," she offered with a small smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. Hermione looked at the worn opening of her mouth, and the tight lines that created its corners. _Indeed_, Hermione thought incredulously.

"But why?" She asked again. "This doesn't make any sense."

"He wishes to ensure your good health," McGonagall explained further, and the room was suddenly sent into a tizzy of murmured conversation and the Wardrobe Twins' giggles. "Which is why he recommends such bouts of sunlight and fresh air in order to avoid another fever." Something in the hat's gaze told Hermione that McGonagall knew that her little illness act had not evaded the master's notice… but that only complicated matters more! What motivation could possibly be behind such an invitation, and such a specific explanation alluding to her lie? Was he merely trying to demonstrate how she could not fool him? The more and more she thought about it, the more she dreaded this dinner engagement. She was positive that he had something rolled up her sleeve, and that when it would finally be revealed, well… She wasn't sure how she was going to take it.

But that didn't mean that she wasn't going to accept. _Oh, no_, she thought stubbornly. _If he thinks that he can scare me so easily, he has another thing coming_. She had not seen him since the night of her escape, and she was determined to maintain her ground. Naturally, she would have to be more careful, so as not to upset him nearly so badly as she had the last time, but should she find a reason to stand up for herself, she would do it without hesitation. _And his _majesty_ should be prepared for that._

"Well?" Flitwick prompted anxiously, staring up at her as his crinkly pages shifted in his suspense. Hermione exchanged glances with the servants in her quarters, and shrugged hopelessly in defeat.

"Do I have any choice?"

Lavender and Parvati squealed with delight as Flitwick and McGonagall tried to hide their gusty sighs of relief; within the hour, the castle was in a whirl of gossip about what this night might mean.

* * *

Hermione was trying her best to be polite.

Really.

If Hermione were to put it diplomatically, she supposed that she could label the evening thus far as an _awkward conversation between two awkward parties_. Though that was being too generous… There wasn't much conversation. It was just _awkward_. It had been distinctly uncomfortable since she first stepped into the hall, dressed in one of the scratchier dresses the Wardrobe Twins had insisted upon, and it was still uncomfortable now—both the dress and the situation—as she self-consciously sipped water from a gaudy goblet in between bites. The Prince had yet to make any attempts at speaking to her and Hermione couldn't decide whether she was glad for the silence or if this just made her even twitchier. She imagined that it had been a while since he had been in any real social setting, and his embarrassment at being so put on the spot must have been making him, ah, _grumpier_ than normal. She tried to keep this in consideration as she delicately cut off another morsel of meat, slowly and with great care, as if she were really trying to cut through the tension around them. She felt so on edge that the tiniest movements from the servants caused her to jump slightly, and she tried to counteract this exhausting nervousness by looking anywhere at _him_. In fact, neither of them had actually laid eyes on one another for more than a few moments throughout the entirety of their evening thus far.

"Well," Draco began, and Hermione mentally cursed herself for ruining her own foul luck. "If I'd known that this was going to be such a stimulating conversation, I would have prepared myself by bringing a book."

She refrained from sending him a scathing look. So this was how it was going to be, was it? Starting back at Square One. Well, she could play his game… And this time, she wasn't going to end up doing something stupid; she was going to behave herself, like a grown woman should, and hold her ground diplomatically.

"Forgive me, _your majesty_," she cut into her meat with force, her previous conscientiousness about table manners disregarded. "I was under the impression that it was preferred that I not speak until spoken to, if at all."

"I was under the impression that such social tact would be lost on you."

_Diplomacy be damned_.

"But of course," Hermione continued through gritted teeth. "I suppose that even if I _had_ any inclination to initiate conversation, I may not have much to offer, I fear." She offered him a distasteful smile, and he narrowed his eyes. "After all, with your estimable social skills, I'm certain that you've probably already exhausted countless topics of conversation with _plenty _of company." Draco glared, setting down his goblet with more force than necessary.

"Well," he said levelly. The smoothness of his sarcasm was only barely punctuated by the roughness of his form. "Even so, what with the stature of your class, and considering what levels you _are_ able to, ah… _manage_, I'm sure that _your family_"—Hermione noticeably cringed—"must find you very accomplished."

"That's it," Hermione slammed her utensils down and a number of nearby servants jumped. "In less than quarter an hour, you have already insulted my intelligence, my class, and my family, all on more than one count." She glared, leaning forward over her meal. "What is your _problem_?"

"_My_ problem?" Draco rose, as did his hackles. The servants retreated as Snape and McGonagall surreptitiously rushed forward.

"Yes, _your_ problem! You're harder to follow than a deranged owl."

Draco snarled, and she vaguely noticed Midas shrink back in on himself off to the side. She would apologize to him later to clear up the confusion.

"Honestly, your _highness_, if the only reason for my presence is so that you have another target for your antics, then I assure you that our time would be otherwise better spent."

"_Another_ target—you blasted—_where are you going_?" But Hermione had already stood, nodded to the servers with mumbled thanks as she excused herself, and turned to leave. "I haven't dismissed you!" He roared.

"Master Malfoy—"

"I saved you the trouble!" Hermione replied with a hiss, already halfway to the door.

"You are nothing _but _trouble," he ground out as he planted himself in her path, forcing her to come to a halt. She flinched slightly at the rapid movement, and the way she suddenly found his snarling face hovering so close to hers, but she recovered quickly. "Nothing but an overconfident little girl who obviously misunderstands her place."

"Then let me leave," Hermione gritted with equal vehemence. "Despite your beliefs, it's _painfully_ obvious to me that my place isn't here. Let me leave, and neither of us will have to pretend otherwise."

Hermione watched with unwanted curiosity as something briefly flickered over his expression. Her eyes narrowed a fraction, trying to cling onto whatever it was that she had seen, but it was already gone. "Being disagreeable won't earn you freedom, girl," Draco spat, his voice dangerously low. "I warned you that your outlook would greatly affect the quality of your stay; do _not_ think that pushing me is wise."

"Master Malfoy," Snape and McGonagall pressed, their voices nearly begging. When had they all crossed the threshold into the Entrance Hall? The girl was still glaring at him, eyes coated with undiluted loathing, and he was certain that his could only match. With a peculiar sense of detachment, he noticed that she was shaking slightly, her form quivering with quiet rage.

With a tiredness he had not realized he felt—an exhaustion that had crept all the way into his bones, into his core—he cut short the low growl that was blistering his throat. He schooled his features back into the familiar mask of apathy and raised his stance to a more dignified position. Feeling his eyes refocus, he pinned her with a cold gaze, and simply said, "You are dismissed."

Her shoulders rose as she seethed, prepared to say something that would undoubtedly retract the practiced calm he had just phased into, but McGonagall was quickly hurrying her away before she could so much as open her mouth to retort. He watched with distant eyes the way her shoulders trembled as McGonagall ushered her away, feeling more exhausted than before. She was going to be the death of him… He just knew it.

The feeling of pewter eyes boring into his skull made Draco turn. Snape was waiting at the frame of the entrance to the hall, and he was not pleased. "Satisfied now, Draco?"

Draco's mask of calm deteriorated as his brows furrowed and a distinct sneer embedded itself in his frown. "What are you looking at me like that for? This is not my fault."

But Snape had already turned on his so-called heel and was making his way back to help clean up the mess—_both figuratively and literally_, Snape's mind drawled. As Draco followed him back into the hall, he couldn't help but notice how the servants went about their work quietly, shocked, as if they were dumbstruck from the whole incident to which they had been privy. He wanted to tell them to wipe those looks off of their faces and to actually do some work—_and to mind their own damn business_—but he still had a bone to pick with Snape, and he was not going to lose this time.

"Snape," Draco defended. He had not intended his voice to come out as such a growl, but his form had other intentions. "This isn't my fault—how could I ever get along with that—with _that_—"

"Forget about the spell for a moment, Draco," Snape cut him off with a harsh whisper, low enough so that only he could hear. "Listen to yourself. Look at how you treated that girl, _again_. Do you think that my blood is any purer than hers?"

"But you're different," Draco fought back quietly, after a pause. "And it's not like I have to marry _you_."

"And thank the heavens for that," Snape drawled impatiently, the sarcasm and disappointment fueling his following words. "On the bright side, I am certain your parents would be very proud to know that you've held their ideals." The Prince's eyes narrowed, and he stiffened.

"Leave them out of this," he whispered dangerously. "You have no right."

Snape held the Prince's gaze for an eternity, and finally, he turned and left without another word. Draco released a breath that he hadn't realized he'd been holding, but the action held no satisfaction. Snape had left Draco alone among the remaining servants, and the air was silent and thick with tension. It was almost as if Draco could hear Snape's thoughts (_Don't make their same mistakes, Draco_), but the notion only riled him further. Feeling a tiny pair of eyes transfixing themselves on his profile, Draco immediately turned to a small teacup on the faraway table, which was staring up at him unabashedly.

"What are you looking at?" He snapped unthinkingly. As the teacup promptly cowered under his glare and started to cry, a pang shot through Draco's chest. He opened his mouth, grasping for something to say, but he hadn't the slightest idea what. When the mother pot came over and glared at the prince, and started to console her son, she turned to him in astonishment.

"Master Malfoy, you should be ashamed of yourself."

Without warning, an image of his mother raided his vision—strong, beautiful and alive. In the mother pot and teacup's stead, Draco only saw his own mother from long ago, during a time when his father had been too harsh on him. With his father's words still echoing in his mind ("_You're not even trying, Draco_") and unable to bear their presence any longer—not the mother pot's, not her teacup's, nor his own memories—he fled to the astronomy tower in a daze.

It was a week before Hermione saw him again.


	15. Energies

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes:** _8/10/11_.

Look at that... Tomorrow will be the SEVEN YEAR ANNIVERSARY of this story. Wow.

I just want to point out again that I've continued on in the story with the same characterization of Neville and Blaise that I used when _Monstrosity _was first published—which, obviously, means that my characters are a tad OOC in comparison. There is so much character development in the books that I couldn't have had access to while first forming their characters in my story, so please keep that in mind as you read on.

Also, I couldn't figure out what the hell to make Luna. Butterbeer cork or a radish? Neither worked, so I opted for a simple solution.

I heavily listened to "Solitude" by David Nevue while writing Pansy's perspective, just as a heads up.

* * *

**Chapter 15: Energies**

* * *

_Inside-out, upside-down,  
Twisting beside myself.  
Stop that now,  
'Cause you and I were never meant to meet.  
I think you'd better leave.  
It's not safe in here.  
I feel a weakness coming on._

– "The Walk," **Imogen Heap**

* * *

Pansy did not sleep.

What need might an enchanted mirror possibly have for rest, after all? Despite Pansy's endless list, the curse ensured that it simply wasn't meant to be. Oftentimes, Pansy bitterly mused that perhaps she would not feel so trapped in her glass prison if she were not also trapped _out_ of her fantasies, her mind… her dreams.

But that would have been too easy, wouldn't it? Like Draco, she could have slept away the endless moments of misery and unavoidable truths, and with Draco, she could have forgotten her state—if only for a time. But her life, though privileged in some respects, had never exactly been easy.

So instead, as always, she learned to adapt. Night after night of listening to the unremitting sounds of the darkness and watching the gossamer of spiders spin farther and farther under the moonlight, Pansy eventually learned how to come to terms with her imposed insomnia.

The first nights were the most difficult—the howling winds echoing off Draco's howling nightmares echoing off the howling winds—and after many useless attempts to procure the elusive comfort that she could never provide, she eventually learned to trace the dust and grime on her tarnished mirror as if it were a doily of lace, and to forget to listen to the howls.

Pansy no longer cried.

The nights eventually hushed, but remained restless. Pansy would sit with the silence—sometimes endurable, sometimes deafening—by measuring his breaths from the opposite edge of the room against her own, and would count the minutes until dawn. She eventually learned that when she no longer lived in constant fear of his nightmares, she missed dreams of her own.

So she explored.

During the quiet nights when she felt that it was safe to slip away—when the painful memories subsided well enough and he slept soundly enough—Pansy sent forth her mind's eye. In her travels, as her energy soared across different lands and seas, Pansy learned the beauty of places she had only heard stories about and heard languages she didn't think she'd ever understand. But out of all the beauty, out of all of the places she marveled at seeing—places she would never before have been able to see, to imagine—the only places she truly wished to see were the ones cut off from her, those blurry images that had been lost and forgotten in the fleeting moments of the last morning she had truly woken up.

But somehow, she daydreamed of Draco.

They were not true dreams; even after three years, the images were not clear enough, the sounds were not sharp enough, and all too soon the entire world of her creation would shift and fade at the slightest distraction. For three years she tried and tried—absentmindedness during the day when the castle had seemingly forgotten her and fantasies during the night when all were suffering in their own personal hells—but her efforts never offered the familiar gratification. If only she could hold onto the moment a little longer, just maybe she would be able to envision the details of her wedding gown, or maybe she could picture the sight that she and Draco would make while greeting their kingdom from the balcony, or _just maybe,_ she could know the feeling of being shrouded safely under the covers as they—

But always too soon, the entire world of her creation would shift and fade.

She still yearned for it, but these recent nights were rapidly distinguishing themselves from those of the past; Pansy was learning a new way to pass the hours. Since the arrival of the unseen girl, Pansy's understanding of her existence had been turned on its head, and so she began to wonder.

What was the difference between energy and will? Between phrenic energy and physical energy? Could one become the other? Could one simply _will_ one to become the other?

In her heart, Pansy knew better than to hope; she had never been strong, like Draco. Thus, she started small, learning and adjusting as she pushed and pulled her at her mind, shaping and hardening her energy. It was exhausting and Pansy had no leads, no guides, and no results to tell her if what she was doing was right or impossible. But one night, as she slipped back into the castle after a particularly fascinating scene from the woman's redheaded lover, she inadvertently stumbled upon an unforeseen breakthrough—when she released her energy back into her dormant form, she awoke not in her tarnished mirror… but in a mirror situated four corridors below.

And thus began a new era of exploration, a new challenge, and with it, hope renewed.

After all… she may have been locked away in a tower, and she may never have been strong, Pansy thinks, but she was no damsel in distress.

* * *

"Goodness, my dear Hermione," Blaise coughed innocently. "I'm not used to being on the receiving end of your murderous stares. And it's especially all the more worrying since I haven't seen you look quite _that_murderous since the night of last week's repast when—"

"Blaise," Hermione cut in forcefully, staring him down with burning eyes, half-scolding, half-pleading. "I'd really rather not talk about it, if that's all right."

"Yes, indeed," Blaise chirped, and Hermione took a calming breath. "But I was only just trying to point out that it's been an _awfully _long time since—"

"Blaise!" Hermione cried, snapping her book shut vigorously. She'd feel bad about it later.

"But—"

"What he means to say, Hermione," Dean cut in smoothly, sending the candlestick a warning glance. "Is just that it's been unnerving for the rest of the castle to see you cooped up here in the library for so many days at a time."

"Meaning, of course," Hermione leaned down to stare Dean straight on. "So many days since I've had any run-ins with your Master."

"Well," Dean admitted, trying not to look too guilty. "Yes, there is that—"

"I knew it!" Hermione tossed her hands into the air. "I haven't even so much as heard from him after that horrid encounter, and I would prefer to keep it that way, thank you kindly."

"Don't you think it _might _be just a _little_ bit nicer if you and the Master were to—you know—get along a _little_ better? Maybe you should just try to—"

"Dean!"

"But Hermione," Neville cut in before either Hermione or Dean could continue. "We hate for you to limit yourself to the library like this! We understand perfectly well that you might need a little time away from the Master—"

"A _little_?"

"—but there's no need to hide yourself up here all the time!"

"Neville," Hermione said slowly, trying to overthrow her impatience with patience. "I _like_ being here! Certainly, I choose to be here because I know that the probability of running into him is much slimmer, but that's not _entirely_ why." Hermione felt herself soften as she looked at the surrounding magnificence in awe. "This place is beautiful. This library is more than I could have ever hoped for in such a predicament, and I'm so grateful to you all for showing this to me—especially after how miserable I was feeling." She glanced at the brush, the pot, and the candlestick each in turn, offering a placating smile. "I promise you that—more often than not—the guise of hiding from your Master is simply just a convenient excuse for me to lock myself in here for hours."

"Oh," Neville said with a frown. Dean and Blaise exchanged looks.

"Neville, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," the pot said, but his shuffling belied his speech. Hermione turned to Blaise and Dean in curiosity.

"Well," Dean started sheepishly. "It's just that we miss you, Miss Hermione, you know? You spent a great deal of time with us before the library… and of course, we understand if you'd rather not be around us after what's been happening and all—"

"Is _that_ what this is all about?" Hermione looked between the three with horrified eyes. She turned to Neville just as Dean and Blaise exchanged nervous, underhanded glances. "Neville, I'm sorry! I never meant to give any of you that impression—I am so grateful for all that you've done for me, and I _do_ enjoy your company. I promise I'll make an effort to visit more often… It's simply that I've never _seen_—couldn't even fathom—this many books before!" She looked around again in unabashed wonder. "I'm in heaven."

Blaise's brow quirked at her choice in words but thought better of commenting. After a shared frown with Dean, Blaise decided that today's attempt at remedying their Master's hopeless prospects was not going to prove any more uplifting than the previous day's. With a shrug, Dean signaled that Blaise should change tactics, and move to more lighthearted subjects, lest she grow suspicious. _Well played_, Blaise thought despondently.

"Suppose that makes sense," Neville said with significantly less shuffle.

"Oi, Longbottom," Blaise inched toward him. "No need to mope. At least _you're_ mobile enough to visit her here, unlike some of the others. And you know, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately: you all should be thanking me. If it weren't for me, you wouldn't have Hermione in the first place."

"What's that now?" Dean muttered.

"I'm the one who lead her into our mismatched circle, anyway, so all this moping poppycock about where she spends her time is totally unnecessary."

"That's ridiculous," Dean chortled. "It could just as easily be argued that I'm equally responsible."

"Certainly not."

"How so?" Dean asked with a defensive crease in his brow.

"Is this truly a real conversation?" Hermione asked Neville with sore eyes, but the disapproving lilt of her voice had not fully hidden her incredulous amusement. He merely shrugged with a similar look of befuddlement.

"Your personality is not nearly so gravitating as mine," Blaise said loftily as he flicked away a piece of now-hardened previously-melted wax. "You may have helped pique her initial intrigue, but I'm the one who keeps her coming back. Wouldn't you say so, Hermione?"

"Er," she said with a lopsided frown as she stared, ever perplexed, at his waggling brows.

"Hey now," Neville cut in, and Hermione was at once grateful for a rational distraction. "Didn't she come back because the Master was in danger?" Her gratitude diminished.

"Technicalities, Longbottom!" Blaise barked as Hermione released a breathy laugh of helplessness. She was torn between light amusement and the dark reminders of something that she had been stubbornly avoiding for days.

"Well," Neville huffed defensively. "We should be discussing technicalities—it's the whole point of this debate, innit? If anything, Midas should get the credit because he helped her from the forest and into the castle, and _I_ should get the credit for letting everybody know!"

"You can't just keep adding people to the list!" Blaised demanded. "Next thing you know, you'll be saying that Crabbe and Goyle should also be considered."

"Shouldn't they?" Dean pondered. "They were there when Hermione entered the castle, as well."

"Just how many people knew about me being here in the castle before I met you?" Hermione whispered to Dean in unpleasant surprise.

"That does it, you two," Blaise said. "If you think I'm sharing—"

"Well, it's quite obvious then, isn't it?" Luna asked quietly, and Hermione almost jumped; she'd forgotten that Luna was there. "Although the credit for having received her as a guest is shared by all of us, Hermione alone is responsible for keeping herself here. Isn't that right, Hermione?"

"Well," Hermione hesitated, growing more uncomfortable under the protuberant gaze of the delicate blue book. How could one look so serene _all_ the time? It didn't make sense to Hermione, and more often than not she found herself unsettled by the young woman's unflappable nature. "Technically, your Master has control over that."

Luna nodded, unperturbed. "But truly, if you wanted to leave, you could do so at any time."

The human balked as the book's distant eyes glazed over something that was outside the window. "What?" Hermione said, flabbergasted. That was most certainly _not_ the truth. If she were truly able to leave, wouldn't she have done so by now? She felt herself growing irritated, but the others were already letting Luna's words sink in.

"So really," Luna continued, unfazed. "Hermione is the one who deserves the credit."

"Luna, you spoilsport," Blaise pouted, conceding defeat. She merely smiled and shrugged while Hermione tried to rein in her temper. _What rubbish_, she thought prickly, feeling dizzy as she watched Luna sit peacefully atop the nearby desk.

She immediately felt awful for such negative thoughts, however. Certainly Luna and she _disagreed_ on a number of beliefs, but the least Hermione could do after being displayed such loyal hospitality was to _try_ to accept her odd… antics. Gently, she cleared her throat as if she were clearing her critical thoughts. She would simply have to get used to Luna, and to her different ways of thinking… She was going to be spending a lot of time in her general vicinity of the library, after all.

Hermione snuck a glance to once again marvel the endless shelves around her. How many books could she read before she returned home? It would take years, maybe decades, for Hermione to read even half of this collection… Perhaps she would get the chance to read a more reasonable portion?

_No_, _Hermione_, she thought. _You have books at _home_. You're getting out of here before you can even make it to the first bookend._

But as she blankly stared at the black binding her lap and thought of her favorite—_red_—at home, she realized that intention might not materialize.

"You know, for such a touted social butterfly, you certainly have a penchant for bringing awkward situations upon yourself!" Dean cried, rustling his bristles in Blaise's direction. Hermione scooted her legs underneath her with an incredulous laugh, lest she literally get herself into the middle of what she knew to be another harmless argument. What were they even fighting about now? _And I'd thought that Ron and Ginny fight a lot_, she smirked.

But there it was.

That familiar pang.

She cleared her throat again, and tried to listen in on the squabble to distract herself.

"Are you sure it's merely a 'social butterfly?' I could have sworn I was considered more than that."

"_I'll_ tell you what you're more of—"

"Apparently, my efforts in becoming recognized as a ladies' gentleman are not coming to fruition. I will have to rectify this immediately."

"Why you—where are you going now?"

"Off to find Britney!"

"It's _Bridgett_, you buffoon—"

But the distraction didn't last. Next thing she knew, her three guides were plodding across the carpet toward the exit. "Goodbye!" She called out after them, watching with slightly widened eyes as Neville hurriedly responded before chasing after Dean and Blaise into the corridor. She slid her gaze to Luna's still form, swallowing slightly.

"Well," Hermione began, squashing down her discomfort. "I suppose I'll be leaving, as well. I think I'll take my book back up to my room for a bit."

"You normally spend all day here," Luna said to the window. "Aren't you afraid of running into those talkative girls? Or perhaps you feel uncomfortable about what I said with you being able to leave the castle?" Luna tilted to the side, seeming to consider this.

"Um," Hermione swallowed, feeling her cheeks grow warm at having been caught.

"It's true, you know," Luna said, unruffled. "But it's all right if you're not ready to believe it just yet."

"Luna, I'm sorry," Hermione said suddenly, feeling rotten for her behavior. "I just—"

"Don't worry, Hermione," Luna turned. She was smiling slightly. But then again… wasn't she always, in a way? "You'll be back tomorrow?"

"Yes," Hermione nodded gently, trying to return the smile. She suddenly felt her skin itching to get back to her room, but she wanted to try her best to be especially polite to Luna from now on. "Tomorrow."

She wasted no further time by moving briskly out of the room and closing the large door with a soft thud. It wasn't that she _disliked_ being alone with Luna. She'd spent a great deal of time around her over the course of the last week and had only felt mildly discombobulated… It was just that what she had said earlier still had Hermione's mind reeling; Luna obviously couldn't have known what she was talking about. _She's always talking about strange things like turnips being some sort of plum or little creatures spinning through people's fuzzy minds. This isn't any different._

So lost in her thoughts, Hermione accidentally ran herself into the corner of one of the darker corridor's turns. With a small gasp of pain and a quietly uttered, rare curse—_Ron would be proud, _she thought distantly—Hermione propelled herself back away from the wall and regained her composure. She hated how distracted she had been lately; not only was it not helping her planning, but it also continually reminded her of just how far out of her element she was. She was _Hermione_, for God's sake. With everything that she knew about herself (_or, at least, thought I knew_), she should have been much farther along in her escape planning and _not _running absentmindedly into walls—and especially not without the excuse of having done so with her nose stuck in a book! The longer she spent her time in this castle, the more and more she began to worry that its influence was beginning to change her character.

But that was silly. It'd only been just over a week.

As she was shuffling the fabric of the robes she wore for warmth, voices from around the long passage of the corridor drifted toward her.

"You think the library will distract her?"

"Well, even if she _were_ to find out, there's not a whole lot she can still do, is there?"

Hermione stiffened immediately, swiftly flattening herself into the shadows at the corner with which she had just collided. Her eyes narrowed and her ears pricked, and she stilled her breathing until she nearly forgot to breathe at all.

"It won't be long until he comes back," one of the servants whispered. "I just know it—that man is always coming around, ranting and raving. And now that we've reacted so strongly, he's bound to be suspicious."

"But we _always_ drive him away," the other member of the pair countered. They were nearing her now. "We just acted as we normally did. You're growing paranoid only because he mentioned her."

"You just wait," the first said stubbornly. "He'll be back—and then he'll come with all those search parties that he's been shouting about and when he finds out that she's been here the whole time, he'll do more than just demand for Miss Hermione again."

_Mad-Eye_, her mind thought desperately.

"I refuse to be drawn into your delusions. Just because he came to the castle calling for her doesn't mean the he has the slightest idea that she's actually here."

"I don't know," the other said, and Hermione watched as they finally came into the light and they continued on, passing her. She pressed herself more firmly into the shadows, willing herself to become invisible, should they look behind. "We can never really predict what he'll do next, can we?"

"Sure we can," the other said, suddenly boisterous, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. "As always—CONSTANT VIGILANCE!"

Their raucous laughter continued on, all the way until they had passed into the next corridor, leaving Hermione in the shadows. She let her body slide down into a heap against the wall, feeling the robes and the fabric of her dress snag in resistance against her movement, and her precious book thudded softly to the floor beside her knees. She sat there for a moment, limply digesting the information that the two servants had unknowingly supplied her, and did something for the second time that day that she so rarely did otherwise.

"Damn," she whispered, and let her head fall back against the stone. She ignored the pain, and dolefully mused that Ron _would_ be proud… had he been around to hear it. "Damn, damn, damn, damn, _damn,_" she let it all out in a rush, covering her eyes with the heels of her palms. What was she going to do? Would Midas let her write another note? Could she actually rely on _Mad-Eye_? He'd been so wrongfully right about so many things, but this… This was her escape. Could she count on him to find her? To help her?

And why was she pondering all of this out in the middle of a dark corridor?

Her mind was suddenly confronted with the image of unexpectedly running into _him _while mucking about aimlessly on his stone floor_, _and before she knew it, she was up and bounding through the corridors back to her rooms.

And so ended another evening. Each day, Hermione grew closer to those around her, biding her time and shielding her secrets while finding herself enjoying their company, and ultimately waited for the moment that would allow her the chance to earn her freedom. Was she a coward for hesitating? Was she a fool for allowing herself to gradually grow more and more attached? Was she a liar, for plotting to leave while leading them to believe that she would stay? Was she a traitor, for finding moments in which she was truly enjoying herself—all as her loved ones agonized over her from miles away? Each day, as sleep closed in around her, and her spinning thoughts lurched and gave way to her dreams, the silent tears escaped before Hermione had any chance of stopping them.

_How ironic_, she contemplated hazily, just before sleep overcame her. _That these tears seem to be the only part of me that have any will of their own._

* * *

"Blaise, you dolt, we should be heading back to the library and keeping an eye on Hermione until she retires for the night—not endlessly traipsing around after females!"

"Dean," Blaise turned back as he scuttled down the corridor. "I have no idea what _your _plans are for the evening, but I'm currently en route to our meeting with Sir Snapey."

"Snape?" Neville choked. "Oh, I'd better be going—"

"Just a minute, Neville," Dean interrupted, not bothering to take his gaze off the candlestick. "What meeting?"

"Dean, come now, tell me you didn't forget? McGonagall informed us last night that she would be unable to receive our reports this evening, and that good ol' Snapey would be meeting with us in her stead."

"Well, I wouldn't want to bother—"

"Neville, hold it," Dean cut off the pot once more, eyes still fixed on Blaise. "What was with all of that talk about Bridget and social butterflies and rectifying social perceptions just now?"

"Come, Dean," Blaise scooted himself closer to the paintbrush. "Surely you don't think our Hermione is too wrapped up in her dilemma to notice some of the inner workings of this castle? I mean, what if she were to suspect that we are constantly rushing off to see the authorities after every day with her?"

"But… we _are_ rushing off to the authorities after every day with her," Dean grumbled. "We're practically spies."

"Which is precisely why it's so important that we draw her attention away from our connections to the higher-ups as much as possible, no? Obviously, as lowly servants of the castle, we are obligated to some mode of interaction with the commanders, but if we really want her to open up—well, we have to make it seem like we're on _her_ side, you know?"

"But," Neville sputtered softly. "_Aren't_ we on her side?"

"Yes, yes," Blaise muttered impatiently. "Once she falls in love and is happy then _we'll_ all be human again and be happy, so in actuality, _her _side is the same side as the _castle's_, but as she cannot yet know that we're _all _on the same side, obviously, we just have to make it appear that we're more on _hers_ than the Master's. And besides, Hermione is an independent soul, you know. I hardly think that she'd appreciate anyone clinging to her so fiercely and whatnot."

"You are off your rocker," Dean deadpanned.

"So we're on both sides?" Neville speculated with a thoughtful frown. "Like double-agents?"

"What?" Blaise snapped impatiently. "No, no—oh, _fine_, whatever, like double-agents then."

"Does that mean Snape is a double-agent, too?" Neville pondered aloud.

"Ha! If anything, Snape is the biggest double-agent of all!" Blaise barked with laughter. "Not only does he have to pretend that he's on _Hermione_'s side for Hermione's sake, but conversely, he _also_ has to emphasize the fact that he's on the Master's side just to get an ounce of his cooperation—if you can call it that—and has to put up with—"

"Zabini, was it?" A deep, cold voice rose from the shadows farther along the corridor. "I was _really_ hoping that our last conversation about _minding one's tongue_ wouldn't need to be revisited so soon."

"M-master Malfoy!" Blaise blurted inelegantly, before lowering himself into a humble bow. Dean and Neville followed suit immediately; Neville, unfortunately, seemed to have lost some dirt in the process… His incontestably shaking form probably had something to do with it. "Forgive me, Sire!"

"Where's the girl?" Draco's voice droned, after a pause.

"In the library, my lord," Blaise managed with more composure. "We've left her with Luna, the librarian, while making our way to our meeting with Snape for the evening report."

"That won't be necessary," Draco said with a steely tone. "It is no longer Snape's or McGonagall's concern. You will _not_ seek out either again, but will instead report your findings directly to me henceforth."

Dean and Neville watched on in silence, not daring to chime in. _Oh, Snape is not going to like this_, Blaise thought._ And we are going to be the ones to get the beating for it!_

"My lord," Blaise swallowed thickly, and tried to dismiss his nervousness with a small cough. "If you're certain."

Draco's brow rose in distaste, impatience complementing his contemptuous mien. "Follow me."

The three trinkets followed wordlessly, paying close attention to the respectful distance between themselves and their Master's heels. The additional challenge of meeting his long stride with no legs on which to support themselves made for a particularly noisy journey despite the verbal silence, and Blaise tried to ignore the unmistakable irritation that was rolled into each of the Master's clenched fists. When they reached a small outside balcony at the opposite end of the castle, Draco pushed the doors open without consideration of his strength, and the battered wooden edges pounded against the outer stonewalls forcefully enough to scatter a small flock of nocturnal birds from the nearby tree branches. The three followed their Master farther into the darkness as Draco perched himself on the stone ledge and settled himself against the wall of the castle's exterior.

"So," Draco sighed impatiently, without giving Blaise the impression that he actually desired that they continue. "Report."

"Yes, sire," Blaise began quickly. "As you may have surmised, your plot to bestow upon her the library was highly successful. So successful, in fact, that Miss Hermione has begun spending nearly almost all of her days there, only leaving at meal times and—"

"I know that," Draco ground out, searching for his patience. "I already know about her routine, you fool. Or, indeed, have you forgotten our last conversation?" Blaise's mouth ran dry.

_"Firstly, you should warn your fellow servants that where the girl is, I will most likely be in hearing range… Thus, it would be wise to mind one's tongue when the _Alpha_ is present."_

"N-no, Sire."

"Splendid," Draco replied acerbically. "Continue."

"My lord?" Blaise tentatively leaned forward. "Forgive me, but perhaps our meeting would most e-efficiently serve your time if you were to tell me that which you would most like to know?" He gulped. "My lord?"

"Very well," Draco eyed the candlestick shrewdly. "What happened after last week's encounter? What has she said of me while not in the library?"

_That deceitful, power-hungry, raging coward of a—_

_Ungrateful, loathsome _worm_ riding out his superiority complex while—_

_Cocky, selfish, tenacious piece of—_

_Nothing but a snippy, overgrown _terrier _who—_

"She, ah, seems to be cooling down after last week's incident," Blaise responded circumspectly. "No doubt that in a few days, her anger will have simmered down enough to attempt another audience in your presence." _So long as we somehow find a way to trick her or bribe her into doing it, and all without her knowing that it was _our_ doing._

Draco pointed him with a blank stare, and Blaise belatedly realized that he needed to brush up on his acting skills in the Master's presence. He coughed nervously. "And what have you told her of us? How much does she know?"

_Oh dear_, Blaise thought and vaguely wondered how he could feel his heart drop into his stomach when he technically had neither. _Blasted phantom pains_.

"For the sake of consistency," Blaise began, forcing himself to eradicate the slight tremor from his voice. "McGonagall has informed us of the points of conversation that she shared with Hermione on the night of her arrival, as well as the manner of her reaction. She told Miss Hermione—very briefly—that our kingdom was once prosperous, but that a curse was placed upon us after the King and Queen's passing."

"Rest their souls," Dean and Neville suddenly muttered quietly in unison.

"Carry on," Draco said gruffly, his brows knitting themselves together.

"She is aware of Snape's influence in the castle, and of Midas' connection to Sybill. She knows that the curse affected us all differently, but she neither knows that there is a cure nor a timeline; she has absolutely no idea that we have less than three months, and that she, herself, is the key. She was mortified by the gypsy's supposed cruelty in leaving you to your fate without any remedy, especially as she is fully aware of what fate awaits us should the curse prevail, and has promised to help us find a solution in whatever ways she could."

"Convenient," Draco rumbled. His eyes bore into Blaise's, who gulped. "And what does she know of the curse's impetus?"

"She… She was informed of the nature of your… state, That Night, and what consequently transpired."

"And how did she fare?" Draco bit out.

"She… didn't react, according to McGonagall."

Draco, likewise, didn't respond.

"McGonagall also might have used the moment as an opportunity to put in a few words in your favor," Blaise added cautiously.

"Meaning?"

"Well," Blaise coughed slightly. "She may have taken a bit of liberty in embellishing your character to… soften the blows, so to speak?"

"Spit it out, Zabini," Draco growled.

"She _may _have mentioned that you… care? About people? Exceedingly? And that you are young and insecure and lost?" Against all better judgments, Blaise involuntarily released a nervous chuckle.

"That _McGonagall_," Draco quietly seethed as his lips reached back to reveal his fangs, his fur rising on end. Neville and Dean instinctively took a step back. "I am going to…" But he cut himself off, opting instead to press his knuckles into his temples in what Blaise _hoped_ was a calming manner. With a huff of hot air from his nostrils, Draco rounded on Blaise. "What _else_ has she mentioned?"

Blaise heard the question floating through the air, lingering at the surface, but read the real question in Draco's burning glare.

_And what of __him__?_

_What of the traitor?_

"Nothing else, your majesty," and Blaise said quietly, and bowed low and deep. The balcony was thick with a long pause.

_She does not know of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named._

"Very well," Draco said finally. "I suppose this may work to my advantage after all. Although it was entirely _unacceptable_ for any member of this castle to divulge such knowledge, I suppose that some pity might soften that sharp tongue of hers, and I'll be able to milk her disadvantage for all it's worth." His laugh was a sneer, as if already playing the picture in his mind. "But anyone who so much as even breathes a word on the matter of That Night hereafter will answer to _me_." Draco fixed his glare on the three terrified servants individually, lingering on the candlestick. "Be sure to make this clear to your workmates."

"Yes, Sire."

"Now," Draco rapped his claws against his bent knee. "What are your proposals for the next course of action?"

Blaise took a moment to organize his thoughts, his brows furrowing together in deep concentration. "As you are aware, her time is majorly spent in the confines of the library. Hermione is very sociable, but also very introspective and seems to treasure her time alone just as much as she enjoys the company of others. Her energy is very much influenced by those in her presence; however logical Hermione may be, she appears to be driven by emotion, especially that of those surrounding her. Thus, the next encounter with her would undoubtedly be most successful, for both parties, with a smaller audience, if any."

Draco stared at the small candlestick below him, an inquisitive brow rising slightly from its crease. It seemed that the Master hadn't expected his response to be so extensive. "And you think the girl would be responsive to this sort of proposition?" The incredulous slant of his eyes made Blaise shift uncomfortably, but he didn't step back.

"No," Blaise said firmly, looking into his Master's narrowing eyes. "Not yet. She is still reeling from the previous encounter, as well the consequences of her attempted escape."

"When?" Draco bit out impatiently.

"We have been doing our best to win you her favor," Blaise replied slowly, carefully minding his words. He doubted that "_we've been begging her to come out of the library so you, the Master, could just get off of our bloody backs already, and see her in the first place, so that everyone could just get _on _with the wooing and so you could get hitched and turn human again, and really people, is it really __so hard__ for crying out loud?" _would be taken very well.

"_When_?"

"Give us three days, your highness," Blaise requested with a slight bow. "We will ensure her cooperation for another audience with you in three day's time." Draco considered him for a moment.

"And what say you about the nature of this meeting?"

"Another attempt at dining together so soon would be… unwise," Blaise stated prudently. "I would recommend considering another venue that would better suit both of you." Draco scoffed.

"So long as I never again have to witness how uncouthly she is able to ruin a piece of meat with a mere fork," Draco wrinkled his noise churlishly while the others frowned. "Just as well; I will consider it." Blaise nodded respectfully, his lips still quirked downward.

"She is totally oblivious to any of our efforts in aiding your courtship, but she is steadily becoming more comfortable in the castle with the accessibility of the library. Perhaps if the connection between the library and yourself were made—"

"Absolutely not," Draco said quickly, bringing his suggestion to an end. "If she learns, it will be my decision, and on my terms. You'll do well to remember that."

"Yes, Sire."

There was another uncomfortable pause in which Blaise did not find it appropriate to provide further input and Draco did not prompt him for additional information. Blaise could feel his form returning to a regular state of calm despite the Master's presence and wondered if, perhaps, he would ever find feeling unflustered in such scenarios commonplace.

He imagined not.

"You two," Draco gestured with the tilt of his head toward Neville and Dean near the door. "What have you noticed of the girl's behavior that will aid me?"

Having thought themselves forgotten, the two had unwittingly lulled themselves closer to a state of calm; at the sound the Master's question, Dean stilled, just marginally, but Neville's form seized with fright.

"Well," Dean coughed slightly, finding his voice. "Hermione has certainly been educated, though for what cause of with what resources, we do not know. She is perfectly literate, and can read as well as write. She has an extensive knowledge of history and of foreign cultures, most likely as a consequence of her avid reading."

"Hermione lives on a farm just at the other edge of the forest," Nevilled added. "She grew up elsewhere, and moved to a village on the outskirts of the forest when she was young."

"Hermione doesn't care for fancy things," Dean continued, his voice growing more confident. "She prefers simple pleasures, most of the time, and most of all with reading and acquainting herself with the servants."

"She doesn't drink!" Nevilled chimed.

"Doesn't gamble," Blaise muttered.

"Hermione also isn't one for cursing, and is actually quite reproving of Zabini's linguistic tendencies," Dean snickered.

"She's also very prone to looking out for others," Nevilled nodded. "She comes to meals early to help us with chores, and even stays late afterward to talk to us while we clean. She's been very nearly giving the teacups heart attacks during meal times when she tries to stop them from—"

"Enough," Draco ground out. The others immediately stilled into silence, and he eyed them hard. "You speak of her with such striking familiarity for only having been acquainted just over a week ago." They shifted uncomfortably.

"She has been well received by those in the castle, my lord," Dean said simply. Draco's eyes narrowed.

"So it seems," he whispered coldly, before turning to Blaise. "And what else of her home? What has she told you about those in the village, those who are undoubtedly looking for her?"

"She has not mentioned them, my lord."

Draco paused, and his sneer faltered. "What?" He snapped.

"She has not spoken of them, Sire," Blaise repeated. "We do not know anything else about the place from where she came."

"And you haven't askedfor _what _reason?"

"She is very forthright with many of her thoughts, your highness," Dean explained. "She offers a great deal to us regularly, and with the limited time and less-than-ideal circumstances, it hasn't been appropriate to pry." Draco's chest heaved with an irritated sigh.

"Well, what of her family then?"

Blaise paused before speaking. "We've noticed, your highness, that above all else, Hermione does not speak of her family."

There was a moment in which Blaise felt his eyes connect with the Master's; Blaise saw something flash within his irises that shook through him, but he couldn't be certain as to what he'd seen. Had it been surprise? Disbelief?

Understanding?

But his Master blinked, and it was gone.

"Your majesty," Blaise began with another respectful bow after another careful shake to clear his head. "We have been doing all that we can to serve your purpose in wooing our guest, and wish to aid you whatever ways possible… And in order to fully assist you, it would be best if we better understood a fuller scope of your feelings toward Miss Hermione."

"What exactly is it that you want to know, Zabini?" Draco's eyes glowered down suspiciously.

"We have spent a great deal of time learning about Miss Hermione's feelings, your highness," Blaise explained slowly. "But unless we know where _you_ stand on the matter, it will be impossible to… push her, I suppose, in the right direction." He looked up at his Master expectantly, half-dreading and half-praying.

"That is hardly relevant," Draco said evenly as he lifted his chin haughtily. Blaise restrained a sigh. _You can take the aristocrat out of his snooty features, but you can't take the snoot out of the aristocrat._

"Aren't you the least bit concerned that even if she does fall for you, the spell's cure will be null and void if you don't feel anything for _her_?" Dean and Neville were shaking their heads fervently from behind Blaise's back, trying with all of their might to telepathically tell Blaise to step down, remember his place and to just _shut his trap already because he's going to get us killed or mauled or_—

"That won't be an issue," Draco spat coldly. "That blasted gypsy will get her lesson in _respect_ and _humility_, all right… And after all," Draco removed a piece of dust from his cloak with distaste. "As soon as the spell is broken, I'll have my fair share of company from the concubine mistresses, regardless."

It was at the tip of Blaise's tongue: _Forgive me, sir, but I'm not really certain that's how true love works. _But he thought better of it, just in time… Not to mention he could practically feel the gazes of his two companions searing through him.

And besides… _Like _you_ would know, Zabini, you hypocrite!_

"Yes, Sire."

"Continue forward with your current schemes," Draco said levelly, gazing out into the encroaching darkness. "And I will expect an audience with the girl in no less than three days."

Blaise shifted his gaze to the floor and heaved a sigh.

"Yes, Master."

* * *

November.

The month had changed by now; Hermione was sure of it.

She ticked off the days in her mind, counting and recalling dates that had escaped her memory in the greater scheme of dangers which she had confronted recently. The weather was growing frostier with each passing hour, and soon her bills would need to be paid, her animals prepared, and her land put in order. Some part of her knew that she could rely on the Weasleys to aid her in such a time of need, but Hermione knew that she couldn't expect—couldn't want—them to go through so much trouble for long.

And when the loan collectors came for payment… Naturally, the Weasleys would meet with them. Mr. Weasley, her legal guardian, owned the deed to her land, after all; as a woman, she had no hope of claiming land of her own, and it was one of her greatest fortunes in life to have befriended such a loyal, generous family. Under more dire circumstances, she would have been forced into marriage immediately following her parents' deaths, and for everything that the Weasleys had done to ensure her independence and to save her from such a fate, she was eternally grateful. But how much could she truly hope for them to save when she was no longer there to maintain their gracious burden?

The book that she had been resting against her folded knees drifted slowly out of her focus and into the waxing shadows. She sat comfortably, reclining against an inviting assortment of throw pillows in her favorite window nook in one of the far corners of the library, but it seemed that her evasion tactics couldn't work any longer; her thoughts were finally catching up with her. Absentmindedly, she let the black cover fall back over her place-marked thumb, and let her mind wander through the glass and over the snow-kissed trees… back home.

What would happen to her assets? She immediately thought of her mother and father's prized possessions, her most precious belongings. Hermione was not a material girl, but she treasured her mother's old locket, her father's old books, her Ronan and Auror… Surely the Weasleys would do all that they could to keep them as safe as possible, but what would she do without her farm? How would she make money to live—to repay them?

She would have no choice but to marry Ron.

She immediately squashed the dread that flooded her at the thought, and then colored at the intensity of her reaction.

Hermione knew that while the Weasleys were kind people, she was not unaware of Mrs. Weasley's intentions for her and Ron to be wed. Always like a second daughter, Hermione and her parents had been inserted into the Weasley circle seamlessly and fully, and there was nothing that such openhearted souls wouldn't do for their _family_. But Hermione had to wonder—would the Weasleys have agreed to assist her so completely after her own family's demise, had they not believed that she would soon join theirs—legally?

She shook her head forcefully—she would not think such things. She loved the Weasleys, each and every one of them—even arrogant Percy—and she would not question their acts of kindness, even said acts _were_ part of a shameless, well-intentioned, underlying match-making plot. They were her family, in one shape or another, and without them and Harry, she would have no one.

_And besides_, Hermione thought, forgetting herself already. _If I don't get out of here soon, it looks like Mrs. Weasley will get her wish anyway._

But wasn't a happy marriage one of her wishes, too? The book shifted deeper into her lap, her place and page forgotten. It was true that marriage was _one_ of her wishes, but she couldn't be sure that it was what she truly wanted so soon. In a few years, Hermione would be considered an old maid, but she couldn't imagine the idea of holding such binding commitments with so much living left to do. Two years ago she had dreamt of returning to the city and attending one of the universities that allowed women's studies, of continuing on in her father's footsteps, of ensuring the continuation of her education, perhaps publishing a book of her _own_—

No.

Her parents had passed on, and with them died those dreams. She had a different life ahead of her now, and she had grown to accept it, hadn't she? Why was her heart resisting even after her mind had reconciled with that fact so long ago? What would her parents have thought of her indecision at a time like this, a time of survival and—dare she think it, she didn't want to think it—_settling_?

_Settling_, she thought, and it was like the perfect pin to prick to her heart. _In every meaning of the word._

But she already knew that even if they had been alive—if they had _survived_—it's not as if they would have had any recollection of who she was, anyway.

The book finally slipped from her lap the floor, but she didn't notice. It all seemed inevitable, now that she stared at her future head-on, without the distractions of a home to run and without the preoccupations of avoiding her moody captor. As soon as she left this castle and returned home, she would have to marry Ron for certain, no matter what her feelings were.

"I love him," she whispered softly to herself, and knew in her heart that it was true. But there were many kinds of love; the word was not bound to one meaning, to one kind of bond. Did she love him in a way that would allow her to overlook the pain and suffocation she would feel from her inevitable dependence on him—for the rest of her life?

And as a traitorous thought flashed through her mind, blinding like a white light, the pin pricked further, puncturing the very core of her heart.

_Would I simply be trading one prison for another?_

"Oh," her breath left her in a graceless _whoosh_, and her hand flew to her chest as if she were trying to trap it inside. _Oh, Ron_, she apologized wordlessly. _Oh, Ron, I'm sorry for thinking such terrible thoughts—you don't deserve this uncertainty, this bitterness. It's not your fault, and I'm only wallowing in my own misery when all you want to do is be there for me, and to help me, and God, what are you _thinking_ through all of this?_

This soon became all too much to bear.

Her silent tears trailed down her colored cheeks and hung dolefully at her jaw, few and fragile though they were, as they graced the dying sunlight with their presence. Since the day she looked on as her father released his dying breath, it was the first time her tears had seen anything but the safe, hidden seclusion of her bed. But Hermione did not care to shield them now—not when the cutting truth of her imminent future was suddenly laid bare and exposed before her, and now that she no longer had any other shield within her power to protect herself from the truth. Not when she was alone and out of sight.

So Hermione sat in her favorite nook in the library with her temple pressed against the glass, and let the tears fall.

By the time Luna had trickled into her alcove much later, with Neville and Blaise and Dean in tow, Hermione's tears had dried and dispelled. They saw her cheerful smile, her bright eyes, but nothing of the breathiness left by her tired lungs, and nothing of the disguise.

But hidden from the shadows, Draco had seen it all.

* * *

When he entered through the doorway, ripping away and casting aside the sheet of cloth that some servant or other had suspended at the frame earlier in the week, Pansy could barely contain her excitement.

"Draco!" She cried, pressing her fingers against the glass in anticipation. "Where have you been all day? I've been waiting for you forever! You'll never _guess_ what I've taught myself to do! I don't know why I didn't think of it before—it's really such a simple concept—but I've been working on it for days and I've really got the hang of it now, and I think that with just a _little _bit more—Draco, are you even _listening_ to me?"

Draco stood in the middle of the room, clenching and unclenching his claws rhythmically with his deep, labored breaths. Pansy's brow creased in confusion, watching the way his paws were shaking just enough to be visible to her trained eyes. She sobered instantly and leaned back away from the glass.

"What happened?"

"Nothing," he snapped, his head ticking to the side in irritation.

"Obviously _something_ happened," she pressed. Her fingers brushed against the dirty edges—_doilies and lace, doilies and lace_—of her mirror. "You can tell me," she whispered.

"Weren't you just blathering on about something?" He twisted his scowl in her direction.

Pansy took a deep breath, maintaining eye contact. _Just wait it out_, she thought. _Try to distract him with something else while he cools down, just like normal, just like you always do, Pansy._

"I was saying that I've _finally_ found a way to see things other than just by using my energy!" She exclaimed, unable to keep the brightness from her voice. "It's not perfect, and of course, I can't fully escape, but I can _leave_ the mirror and move around to other reflective surfaces!"

"You… you can leave the mirror?"

Pansy beamed, ecstatic from the awe she heard in his voice. "Yes! Like I said, it's not perfect, but with a little work—"

"On the contrary," Draco said, his voice scathing despite the frigidity, as he started for the balcony. "This is quite lovely. Now you can finally give me some damn privacy."

Pansy's body seized as if she'd been struck, her mouth hanging agape in shock. Her chest certainly _felt_ as if she'd been struck by something…

"Draco!" She called out, half-appalled, half-devastated.

She had been trying so hard… Trying so hard to do this for him, for them, for _herself_, and he couldn't even care?

He paused at the entry of the balcony, his claws lingering against the stone frame. He did not turn around to face her fully; she saw only his profile in the shadows of the twilight. _Draco does not apologize_, she knew, and she braced herself for further impact.

"I just want this girl out of my castle as soon as possible," he said, and the sound of his voice broke her.

_Doilies and lace, doilies and lace, doilies and lace—_

She stared, open-mouthed in shock, as the invisible force that had struck returned once more in a wave that encircled her entire body. As he swept out of sight and onto the veranda, Pansy fell to the pressure closing in on her, lost her balance, and fell against the glass with a small gasp.

Breathing in ragged bouts of air, Pansy's head felt light with epiphany; Draco wanted the girl out of the castle.

Pansy needed no further invitation.


	16. Unsettle

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes: **_8/16/11. _

As for the last chapter's scene with Draco, well... Don't jump him just yet! Pansy's perspective is very skewed due to her own personal aspirations, and she often sees what she wants to see instead of looking at things objectively (ironic for someone who's granted such power regarding sight, eh? Suppose that having such an opportunity isn't nearly as powerful if one can't properly see what's right in front of them, so to speak, ha). Her mind is a very interesting place to explore, but it only offers a limited view of the rest of her surroundings.

Also, **Kite1011**: I've already said this, but honestly, I am so glad that you just happened to cross my story's path last, what... October? Now that everything is rolling, it's very hard for me to imagine how lost this story would have been had your review not inspired me to give it a second chance.

And hot damn, this has got to be a record. Fastest chapter update in my personal history, eh? In all honesty, it can be attributed to the fact that I've actually been working on this chapter for months… It is one of many turning points to come, and after millions of tiny tweaks over the course of what has been a long process, I've finally reached a point of satisfaction with how it turned out. :) Hope you enjoy.

* * *

**Chapter 16: Unsettle**

* * *

_Sometimes, the last thing you want comes in first,  
Sometimes, the first thing you want never comes,  
And I know, the waiting is all you can do,  
Sometimes..._

- "Strange & Beautiful (I'll Put A Spell On You)," **Aqualung**

* * *

"Bloody hell."

"What is it, Ron?"

He shook himself from his trance as Ginny came to his side; he hadn't realized he'd spoken aloud. "Nothing," he muttered hastily. "Just thought I saw something, that's all. A trick of the light."

_Just like that bloody owl that keeps showing up in Hermione's stable_, Ron thought darkly. _And now I'm seeing people in the windows of shops? I must be losing it._

And as he stepped back into a march alongside a nervous-looking Harry and Ginny, a quartet without its fourth, Ron knew that he wasn't just _losing it_.

It was already gone.

"Well," Harry commented amusedly. "It seems that Mad-Eye is causing the quite the ruckus today."

"When _isn't_ Mad-Eye making a ruckus?" Ron grumbled, and Ginny laughed.

"What's he going on about now?" Ginny asked curiously, swinging her hand with Harry's.

"Probably the same as every other day," Harry mused with a shrug. "Same crowd, same silly stories, same attempts to earn a bit of extra income."

"He's probably just trying to distract everyone," she sighed, closing her fingers tighter around its counterpart's.

"Nobody needs a distraction," Ron remarked disdainfully. "What we should be doing is actually _doing_ something; not just sitting around an old lunatic on his rusty bucket."

"Ron, its—"

"Wait," the redhead said suddenly. "What's that he's saying?"

"Ron, what are you—"

"Shh," he whispered harshly, moving closer to the small crowd that was quickly dispersing away from Mad-Eye. "Come on."

"—and that castle ain't no fairy tale palace, let me tell you. But that's where he's got her, all right."

Ron's body went rigid, a side effect, he supposed, from mind-numbing shock and having all of one's breath swiftly forced from one's body. His right hand, which had successfully clasped the pouch of coins hidden at the bottom of his satchel, suddenly twitched, and without warning, the pouch slipped from his fingertips. Ron distantly heard the rustling sound of numerous metal pieces falling and rolling into the abyss of his pack, out of his reach.

It was just his luck.

"Have you seen her?" asked a child from nearby. Her mother muttered something unintelligible to her daughter before sending Mad-Eye a stern look, and quickly directing her farther down the street, out of sight.

"I haven't," Mad-Eye barked. "But that doesn't mean I don't know she's in there. That Hermione's smarter than the average villager, and she's no doubt keeping vigilant. I bet she's cooking up an escape plan, even as we speak. But she'll need help—we've got to—"

"You've got a lot of nerve," Ron seethed, taking a step toward the circle and feeling his fists clench. Although there were very few passersby in the area left to watch the events unfold, the remaining onlookers remained still, enraptured, but Ron cared little.

"Ron, leave him alone, he's just an old coot," Harry said calmly, warningly, placating him with a firm hand on his shoulder.

"Why should I?" He fired at Harry, turning to stick him with a glare. _Don't you hear what he's saying?_

"Ron," Ginny said gently, placing a hand on his other arm. "There's no need to cause a scene. Let's go home. All right?"

He was breathing deeply, trying not to look at Mad-Eye, lest he forget himself again. With a quick exhale, he gave Harry a brief nod, and thrust a hand into the pit of his satchel, rummaging mercilessly for a lost coin. Finding one, Ron jerked it out of his pack, and flipped it at Mad-Eye's feet with a flick of his thumb.

"There," Ron glowered, his tone warning. "You've made some money. Now go tell your stories elsewhere." With nothing left to say, Ron motioned the others to follow him with a flick of his wrist, and headed in the direction of the Burrow.

"You know it, Weasley," Mad-Eye grumbled from his increasingly isolated bucket. "I know you can _feel _it." Ron paused, allowing his head to turn fractionally toward the man behind him.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Nonsense," Mad-Eye said gruffly, but he was already picking up Ron's abandoned coin and his withering bucket. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

But by the time the trio had turned toward the old man once more, Mad-Eye was already making his way down the street, one leg hobbling as he went. Ron stared on, numb, as the two others pegged him with questioning looks.

"Ron," Harry began, as if he were talking to a caged, wounded animal that would strike at any given moment. "What _was _he talking about?"

Ron shifted, readjusting the strap of his bag on his shoulder, and continued onward. "Dunno."

But somehow, without really knowing how or why or _exactly_ _what_… Ron suspected that he knew.

* * *

It didn't mean anything.

At least, that's what Draco had been telling himself for the past day or so.

He didn't dare return to the library, but he couldn't find himself content to sit still in his usual spot at the Astronomy Tower either, so this left the Prince mulling over his predicament as he aimlessly swept through the castle. He paused every now and then to listen in on his unsuspecting servants, hoping to find a conversation to distract himself from his unsettling thoughts, but more often than not he usually just ended up finding something that stoked his aggravation rather than suppressed it.

"And he can't expect anything to just happen!" A bucket exclaimed loudly, as it continued to be poked and prodded by the surrounding brushes for it water supply whilst scouring a fifth floor corridor. "He needs to make an effort!"

"Precisely," one of the scrub brushes agreed in exasperation, as Draco sneered down at them from the shadows. "The Master can't just expect things to fall into his lap!"

"Bless his heart, after all that he's been through, but… He wouldn't know _how_ to work for something like this, even if he wanted to," whispered another servant as she scrubbed at a particularly stubborn mark on the stone.

"We're all doomed," said the bucket grumpily, letting himself be rattled as the brushes banged into his form in their haste for soap and suds.

"Yes," replied the quiet servant. "And poor Miss Hermione is suffering all the while, all for us."

It was at this moment that Draco—whose body had bent itself without his knowledge so that it was hovering precariously in the darkness over the railing, held taut with the anticipation of a coiled spring—paused. The treasonous servants continued to chatter on about his apparent ineptitude, but he forced himself to listen to the sounds of his own labored breathing instead. Never in all his experience had he heard such seditious conversation amongst his subjects; this girl had been nothing but trouble since gracelessly stumbling upon his life, and yet _she _was the one who got to play the victim?

The considerable maintenance of Draco's rapidly decreasing sanity over the course of the last week had been a long, arduous process. After all, his mental stability had been mostly salvaged due only to the on-going amendments to his recently-created list of _Servants to be "Let Go" Immediately Upon Mortal Transformation_… the top of which was headed by none other than that blasted candlestick, Blaise Zabini. And Draco knew that David—or was it Daniel?—Thomas was a close second, with certainty.

But yesterday had proven to the greatest strain of all. _Yesterday_ was…

"Not worth consideration," Draco grumbled, catapulting himself off of the railing and farther down the corridor, away from the unknowing batch of servants. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew that they weren't any truer than they were the first fifty times he'd uttered them. He leaned heavily against another stone railing on the seventh floor, letting his head fall miserably over the balustrade, not bothering to resist this time as his mind recalled the memory of the girl's cascading tears trailing down her cheeks, her book abandoned on the floor.

It didn't mean anything.

It wasn't sympathy, he assured himself. It was just… unsettling, he decided. A strange, foreign feeling that had taken over only because he was unused to seeing someone normally so cheery, and so passionate, so fiery, so _annoying_ fall so vulnerable to tears. Seeing her curled in on herself against the glass had seemed so wrong, and he had never before felt like he had intruded—he had always been entitled to anything and everything, but that was _before_—and it was all he could do to get away, to distance himself from this unfamiliar feeling of guilt and confusion. She'd obviously been considering something that deeply bothered her, and the worst part, Draco realized, was that it could have been any number of things, and that he wouldn't even know where to start, had he tried to pinpoint the cause of her anguish.

Here he had been, for a whole week, acting the typical coward he was by hiding himself in the shadows while enlisting others to do his dirty work, and all he could think about was how he couldn't wait until this was all over, how _good _it would feel to finally be rid of her once he was human again and surrounded by his waiting admirers and loyal subjects and whatever else it was that he was supposed to bloody want. Meanwhile, unbeknownst—inconsequentially—to him, as she holed herself up in the library, in his very own selfish ploy to occupy her and distract her, she was wallowing in a pain he did not care to name nor investigate, totally oblivious to his atrocious quarter-hearted attempts at wooing her in order to save his kingdom. And how did he react when finally confronted with this truth? By falling back on every useless, inefficient defense mechanism he'd ever utilized, and storming off to find Pansy, his once security blanket, to have her set his familiar reality back in place and to have her affirm his doings—always, always, no matter what he did, because he could do no wrong in Pansy's eyes—of course.

What a shoddy, ineffectual, good-for-nothing plan.

Unsuccessfully, he tried not to remember what he'd said earlier about the concubines.

"Fuck," he uttered simply, and let his head hang lower.

Absently, he overheard the hushed conversation of two particular incoming servants as they bounded through the corridors leading to where he stood. In his inattention, disconnected words rushed past his ears, including "death wish," "best intentions," and "cheesecake."

But maybe he'd misheard that last one.

"Master Malfoy," Dean all but shouted from the opposite end of the hall, gasping haggardly for breath as he hurried down the corridor. "Please forgive us!"

"Yes," Blaise drew in a long breath. "We've been looking everywhere for you—please allow us to report yesterday's findings! Miss Hermione seems to be in much lighter spirits today, and we think that if we were to _gently_ begin sliding hints in her direction this afternoon, working at a proposal for an audience with you for the day after tomorrow at the latest, that she might—"

"There isn't time," Draco said curtly, with newfound resolve.

"Your majesty?" Dean asked nervously, noting the change.

"I'll meet with her today, without any blasted propositions on your part."

"You mean to say," Blaise supplied mindfully. "That you've already arranged a meeting with Miss Hermione yourself?"

"Arranged?" Draco retorted, obviously displeased. "Who is the patriarch of this castle? I need no _arrangement_."

"Then," Dean spoke softly. "You intend to call upon Miss Hermione unannounced?"

"Call—_call_ upon—it's my bloody castle!" Draco roared, and Dean shriveled upon himself from the force of the Prince's outburst. "I'll go and see the wench any damned moment I please!" But Draco shuddered, realizing with revulsion how his meaning had gotten twisted in his words.

"Master," Blaise cried. "Master Malfoy, _please_, my position as your liaison and as Hermione's guide behooves me to strongly caution you against any rash—"

"I know what I'm doing, you fool," Draco sneered. "If you want to do your job _well_, you'll make yourself scarce."

"But Master Malfoy, I implore you—"

"Zabini," Draco growled, and Blaise immediately froze. "Let me make myself unmistakably clear: _leave this to me_. Should you so much as even consider stepping out of line, you should know that by the time I'll be done with you, you won't even be fit to seal an envelope. Are we clear?"

"Yes, Sire," Blaise gulped.

"Splendid," Draco supplied him with a mocking smile, and Blaise wondered if he realized the gruesome effect such an expression had over his features and the unwilling recipients. "Now go."

Blaise supposed he did.

Dean and Blaise promptly whisked themselves away, carrying themselves to Hermione's quarters as quickly as their bodies would allow. They knew that Hermione wouldn't be expected in her room for at least another couple of hours, but they wanted to make sure that they would be waiting for her when she returned.

"Damn," Dean muttered as soon as they reached the threshold of her chambers. "Hermione doesn't have any idea of what's coming!"

"Well," Blaise confessed, slightly miffed. "Technically, neither do we."

* * *

Hermione wouldn't exactly call it _slinking_ through the corridor, but she had to admit that she must have been quite the sight, all the same.

Surreptitiously glancing around her as she crept through the twists and turns, Hermione viciously disapproved of the lack of structure in the castle; the way that these staircases and walls were laid out, one would think they were _designed_ to get a girl lost.

But Hermione was not just any girl. In fact, she'd come to this startling revelation just that morning, when she awoke from an especially fitful night of tossing and turning. With sudden perspicuity, she sat up in bed, fully convinced that this _nonsense_ had to end. The catharsis of the incident in the library yesterday had left Hermione feeling liberated, as if a burden had been lifted from her shoulders over the course of the night, and part of her—a stronger, wilder part that she had dearly missed—was unleashed with a fierce, renewed determination. She believed her exact thought had been something along the lines of: _I am going to get myself out of this castle, with or without the help of Mad-Eye—I am Hermione __Jane__ Granger, damn it, and there is nothing that a royal, overgrown Neanderthal can do to stop me! _

But then again, it had sounded much more inspiring when she hadn't been slinking along the walls like a fool.

"Oh, shut it," she muttered to herself, coming across an inconspicuous-looking door.

_Please be a storage closet, please be a storage closet with some kind—any kind—of supplies, please be a—oh! _

"Miss Hermione!"

"Ah, Parvati!" Hermione cried in surprise, steadying her heart with the hand not still lingering on the door handle. Apparently, this area wasn't so much a storage closet as it was a well-hidden guest room, matching Hermione's room in many ways, save the size. And apparently, Hermione's stealth was for naught. "I've never seen you so far from my chambers before!" she exclaimed brightly, trying to hide the thunderous beating of her heart with cheeriness.

"Oh, I'm not Parvati—I'm Padma, her twin!"

"Twin?" Hermione echoed uncertainly.

"Indeed!" Padma chirped with a giggle. A giggle. _Oh god,_ Hermione blanched. _Not another one! _"We're identical! We've been told that our personalities are rather similar as well."

"Lavender doesn't have a twin… does she?" she asked, clearly hearing the horror in her own voice.

Oh, spare her the torture of knowing that there are _two _sets of Wardrobe Twins in her midst. If so, she might as well get used to the idea of sleeping and eating in the library in addition to spending all of her _other_ waking hours there. She may not be able to avoid leaving her sanctuary for some things, such as for the sake of bathing, but she was sure that she could convince the servants to allow her a shred of leniency—_mercy_—if she begged graciously—_skillfully_—enough. Perhaps she could even—

"Oh," Padma said suddenly, her eyes widening in recognition, and Hermione was at once ready to apologize for her attitude, which she was certain had been written plainly all over her face. "No, no, Parvati and I are the only ones, but… Well, I'm sorry, Hermione, to have our conversation cut short so soon after meeting, but I'm afraid you'll have to be going now." And with that, the matching cherry wardrobe shuddered to the right and molded itself back against the wall.

"What?" Hermione asked, taking a cautious step closer to Padma's wooden frame. "Wait, don't sleep just yet! Are you all right?"

"Yes, yes," Padma said comfortingly, but Hermione didn't understand why it had been a whisper. "I merely wish not to interrupt. I promise that I will speak with you again soon! But it is not my place to intrude, so I will leave you be."

"Interrupt _what_?" Hermione asked, placing a hand at one of the sharp corners of Padma's form and kneeling to peer into the young woman's face. Any trace of Padma residing in the woodwork, however, had already faded out of view. "Padma?" Hermione called experimentally, tapping the uppermost drawer with a finger and temporarily disregarding all notions of personal space. "Padma, I know you're in there! What don't you want to interrupt?"

"Still so unaware of your surroundings, girl."

Hermione froze in her rather undignified crouch on the floor, her fingertips still hovering over the grain of Padma's should-be face. She didn't dare breathe, didn't dare blink, but most of all didn't dare turn her eyes toward the unmistakable presence behind her. When had he arrived? And more importantly, how could she have not _noticed_?

Hermione decided that she'd definitely lost the battle of stealth.

With a slight clearing of her throat, Hermione righted herself with all of the grace she could muster. After trailing her hand along the edge of the glossy metal handle of the wardrobe in a vague reassurance to Padma that she understood the reason for her sudden disappearance—_Betrayal! Abandonment!_ —Hermione crossed her arms over her chest in a not-so-subtle defense, and allowed her pose to swing hipshot. She turned her head in his direction, ever so fractionally, but focused her eyes on his shoulder instead of his face. After all, she really didn't need to find herself in another altercation so soon after their last, and she had a feeling that it would not take much more than a single look of his to goad her into retaliation.

"Your majesty," she greeted austerely, offering such a stiff curtsy that, at best, could have been mistaken for stumbling.

The Prince regarded her for a moment, and Hermione waited in the unmoving silence with a growing sense of dread. _No_, she thought harshly. _I'm not going to hide anymore! Whatever he throws at me, I will handle it. I can do this. I can do this. _

"Already scoping out the other guest rooms?" The Prince snidely postulated. "Greed and discontent are not reserved for the higher classes alone, I suppose."

"To what do I owe the honor of this visit, your highness?" The sharp words rolled off of Hermione's tongue immediately, lancing through the pretense of a friendly conversation even as her diction attempted otherwise.

This gave the Master pause, and after a few long moments of rising curiosity, Hermione ignored her previous self-directed vow, and risked a glance toward his face. What she saw wasn't especially reassuring, naturally; while he may have _appeared _aloof, Hermione noticed the careful calculation in his eyes, the barest hints of rumination over the possible consequences of a decision running its course. Hermione recognized in his eyes something that she had seen countless times in Harry's… But whereas Hermione would reach out to Harry and lead him through his internal struggle with all of the know-how of a life-long friend, she could only watch on with growing unease as the Prince continued to consider her.

Whatever was taking so long for him to decide upon, after all, surely couldn't mean anything good for her.

"Come," he said suddenly, turning on his heel and walking onward without even so much as a backward glance to confirm her cooperation. Hermione inhaled a deep, calming breath, clenching her fists as she glared at his back, urging herself to maintain control and _come on Hermione, you're the adult here, so act like it! _"Watch your step," he reminded with an unexpected glance over his shoulder, his harsh gaze unyielding.

With all the aplomb she could summon, Hermione inhaled deeply once more, and followed him into the corridor, doing her best to maintain the blasted distance from his heels that he so highly demanded. _If he really cared for such distance, he wouldn't have had the nerve to seek me out in the first place!_

The trek through the various corridors was awkward with a silence that can only result from the convergence of two mutually antagonistic souls, and Hermione desperately tried to distract herself from the uncertainty of her current situation by listening to the padded sounds of her footsteps along the carpet. The itch to ask where he was taking her was gnawing at her so badly that she could feel the urge grating against the marrow of her bones, but she knew better than to ask. One too many words in the Master's presence was a sure-fire ticket to the dungeons, she'd learned, and she'd rather not experience that lesson again. She let her eyes trail fire over the back of his cloak with her anger, remembering the hours she'd spent curled against dampness of the dark in her cell. He had released her, yes, and she supposed that on some level, to some narrow extent, she should be grateful, but gratitude might have been _slightly_ more manageable to assemble had his sudden change of heart manifested itself, say, a few hours _before_ she had nearly caught a cold. _Or, perhaps, if he had simply never thrown me in the dungeons in the first place_, Hermione thought. _Tyrannical __brute__._

As if he could feel the malicious intent streaming from her gaze, the Master peered at her over his shoulder with inquisitive, slanted eyes as they rounded a corner. "You're not on your way to the dungeons, if that's what's got that sharp tongue of yours so restrained." Hermione started, just indiscernibly, but the tension did not leave her shoulders as she returned his glare.

"Forgive me, your highness. Was that meant to be reassuring?" She asked with false brightness.

"On the country," he nearly muttered, obviously disgruntled. "I have serious doubts that anything could ever be done to ease that temper."

Hermione bit her cheek to refrain from making what could only be a regretful comment, but her mouth was burning with the pressure to point out just _whose_ temper could be judged as equally disagreeable. What would be the point? And did he honestly believe that he could acknowledge her bout in the dungeons so simply, in passing, and then pretend as if she couldn't possibly have had any lingering resentment for it? Did he think that if just _forgot _that there had been a reason for her anger that she would forgive him for his supposed punishment? That was all, of course, based on the impossible notion that he might even care for her forgiveness in the first place. She hadn't brought up the topic again simply out of survival instincts; she couldn't begin to fathom why _he _would see fit to mention it.

_I can do this._

"We are here," the Prince stated blandly, as if he were already tired of her presence, as if he had nothing else to say but felt obligated to speak anyway. _Good_, Hermione thought spitefully, examining the large door that they had come across. _The sooner he tires of me, the sooner he will release me from wherever it is we're going, and I will be able to get back to more important matters and figure out how I am going to get out of here._

"Here," he said gruffly, extending a hand and shoving something roughly in her direction. Surprised, but momentarily graced with unforeseen reflexes, she grasped the fabric that he had thrust toward her.

"A cloak?" Hermione asked aloud, her curiosity besting her.

"Put it on," Draco ordered impatiently, and Hermione watched with annoyance as he rolled his eyes while she worked her fingers around the fastening of the cloak around her neck. Not bothering to check that she followed, again, Draco opened a large door and stepped through.

It was magnificent. Somewhere within the seemingly unending walls and corridors of the castle, there appeared to be a grand, open courtyard, and Hermione had suddenly found herself at its edge. A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks, and she watched on in fascination as the wind disturbed the snowflakes that had settled peacefully across the opening, enraptured as it began spinning and swirling the snow dust in brilliant spirals before her. She took in the expanse of trees, small and large, some leafless and some pine, and all crested with snow. Hermione noted with curiosity the basin of a birdbath tumbled haphazardly on its side, as well as a number of benches punctuating a hidden walkway, wooden with wrought-iron skeletons, and most importantly, a broad open sky, white as the snow beneath her feet.

A low sound from ahead of her broke Hermione from her thoughts, and belatedly, she realized that Draco had already set off into the courtyard without her, his cloak billowing behind him and he sifted through the light coating of snow on some invisible trail. Hermione let the door swing shut behind her, clutched the fabric of the cloak tighter around herself, and followed his footsteps with only minimal haste and motivation to catch up. She watched him tread through the courtyard, wordlessly twisting and turning around bends in the obscured walkway and wondered if perhaps this space was not the final destination. He seemed to be walking purposefully enough, but Hermione couldn't help but shake the feeling that he was… stalling? She waited as she walked behind him, clinging to the cloak, and meanwhile marveling at her surroundings.

"So," he began with obvious difficulty, still staring straight ahead. "I'm assuming you've seen a courtyard before." Hermione arched a brow, unsure if his comment was more _snide remark _or _blatant ignorance_.

"Oh, you know," Hermione scoffed, relying on her newfound friend—sarcasm. "When one regularly calls upon the Archduke of England for tea, these things do become a bit of a bore," she bit out, watching her breath twist in the cold. But this made Hermione pause; when had her words ever held such bite? She absentmindedly rubbed the juncture between her jaw and her throat, willing her speech to maintain a sense of normalcy.

Draco made a noise at the back of his throat, inhaling deeply. When he spoke, his voice was strained. "Don't patronize me, girl."

Hermione ignored him and continued following, waiting for another blow to begin the inexorable pattern of their hostility, and yet another argument. But it never came.

They walked in awkward silence for some minutes then, as Hermione's thoughts grew preoccupied by the meaning of this sudden outing to the courtyard and the erratic behaviors of the Prince. Through all of her musings, she failed to notice that the Prince continued to shift uncomfortably as they walked.

"So," he began again, and Hermione groaned inwardly. "You seem to be familiar with my servants," he said, and Hermione's train of thought faltered. Was that resentment in his voice?

"We've spend a great deal of time together," she said simply. _Courtesy of my imprisonment_, she would have liked to add, but she held her tongue.

"Indeed," Draco said, and the resentment was now obvious. Hermione once more bit the inside of her cheek, wondering what on earth he could be going off about _now_; his annoyance was rolling off in waves, and it was contagious. "I imagine that your commonalities are what allow you all to relate so easily," he remarked flippantly.

Hermione exhaled deeply, and forced her voice to remain calm as she stared straight at his back. They were coming alongside a large stone fountain, its grime a startling contrast with the purity of the snow, and its foundation deteriorating from disuse. "Meaning?"

Draco sent her a sidelong glance, saturated with annoyance. "Allow me to rephrase: I wouldn't know of what matters might amuse the lower classes, but I imagine that your likeness of them is the cause for such affinity." Hermione clenched her teeth. Was he baiting her? Fine. She could play his game, all right.

_No_, Hermione chided herself, calming her anger. _I can do this!_

"How astute of you to notice, your excellency," she attempted. Hermione unfortunately didn't entirely manage to erase the sarcasm from her voice, however. "Your servants should be grateful to have such an observant master concerned for their wellbeing." _Why, in fact_, Hermione thought, the words rising to the tip of her tongue. _Your perceptiveness of character is really quite impressive._ But again, Hermione wondered where such a scathing retort had come from… And upon remembering the _last _character that Draco had undoubtedly perceived, the character of the man who had betrayed him, Hermione felt the sharp stab of guilt at her presumptuous thoughts.

"Astute? I assure you that there is no question about the quality of my education."

"I'm sure your mentors would be quite impressed," Hermione gritted out, earlier guilt forgotten. But then she faltered, thinking of the diary and just _who _had been the Master's mentor. _Damn him!_

The Prince, however, didn't seem to notice her predicament, being far too caught up in his own frustration, as he was. After a moment of hesitation—perhaps he was not entirely sure why he was about to say whatever it was he wanted to say, or what good he thought it would do him—the inevitable cycle renewed, and Draco's next words grated against her senses.

"It's more than I can say for my wayward company," he spurred distastefully. Hermione could now taste the coppery tint of blood as she continued to ignore his bait. "Thank you for confirming my point," the Prince spat impatiently, when he received no response. "Obviously, if conversational ability is once again any indication, there is simply no contest."

And upon hearing this, she felt herself slammed right back to _miserable_ Square One, his words hitting her resolve like a bludgeon to the chest, and Hermione realized with blinding clarity that she had had _more than_ _enough_.

"How dare you!" She rounded on him.

"How dare _I_?" Draco growled, spinning and coming to a halt, facing her. He stepped closer, menacingly, but Hermione didn't have the capacity to flinch.

"Enough," Hermione ground out. "What's the meaning of this? There is _no_ way that you are out here with me voluntarily, acting of your own accord—who is putting you up to this nonsense?"

Draco's breath spurted from his nostrils in an angry huff. "You are delusional."

"Am I?" Hermione spat, alternating between crossing her arms, clenching her fists, and placing them on her hips. "Surely you can't expect me to believe that this is totally _your_ doing."

"As you should; after all, my expectations of _your_kind have been repeatedly confirmed since you first set foot in my castle," Draco spat unflatteringly, and Hermione grimaced in fury.

"So then why am I here? If, supposedly, you are acting according to your own whims, then _do_, pray tell—what am I—a plaything the Prince can insult and torment when the tedium of palace life becomes too much?" She ignored the way his body curled with distaste at the mention of a _plaything_. "You bring me to dine when you obviously can't stand the sight of me, and you invite me out here for what—a _picnic_? Ha!" Her short bark of laughter fiercely rattled her frame. "Why do you keep insisting on these gatherings when it's clear that neither one of us has the stomach for it?"

"I don't have to explain myself to you, peasant," Draco growled deeper, the cadence of his voice lost in the rumblings of his heaving chest.

"Ugh! And that's _another_ thing, you animal," she hissed, ignoring his warning snarl and raising her voice over the sounds emitting threateningly from his form. "It's Hermione! Her-_my_-oh-knee! If you're going to be persistent in bothering me, your _majesty_, you might as well get the name right."

"You _insolent_—"

"You coward," Hermione seethed, and her voice came out through shaking lips in just barely a whisper. What was she doing? She should shut her mouth and back down while she still had the chance; he could reach out in just a matter of moments and _easily_ swipe her head clean from her shoulders, if he so wished, but Hermione couldn't contain herself any longer. "I'm certain Madam McGonagall and Sir Snape have something to do with this—some misunderstood attempt to improve my stay, no? Well, what I don't understand is how a souped-up mongrel like you can boss everyone around in every other manner in the castle—like you've been doing for _quite_ some time now, I'm certain—yet you choose to listen to them about _this_? To continue these futile attempts to engage one another in—"

"—there is no _higher _rank than I, you despicable clout. Anything I do is solely a consequence of my personal intentions, and mine alone. Anything I do for them is done only when it is done on _my terms_ and is acted out of _respect_ for my feeble-minded advisors, you nosy _serf_. It's a concept that appears quite foreign to you, and as I can hardly tolerate your demeanor any more now than I could a few days ago, I _suggest_ you—"

"Then what are we still doing here?" Hermione gritted through her teeth with bitterness, and the Prince paused his own tirade momentarily, distracted by the indisputable rise of venom in her voice. "You've already made it perfectly clear that as a prisoner bound to protect your kingdom's secrets, I am allowed a reasonably comfortable stay, provided that I stay out of your way, but why cause _yourself_ more aggravation with my _already intolerable_ presence with such wasteful, half-hearted attempts at conversations—arguments—about _nothing_! Why instigate these pointless excursions if your only thought throughout the entire ordeal is how to escape from them yourself?" She stopped, hoping to catch her heaving breath.

It was then that a realization struck her: her whole body was tensed, spine curved into a position with heavy implications of a potential strike, and her knees were slightly bent as if prepared to spring. Her hands were molded into shaking fists, as they had become accustomed to do in this strange, new place, and her throat was burning with the shouts that she hadn't realized she'd been producing. Her eyes had tightened into hostile slits. In that moment, it hit her.

She was acting just like _him_.

And just as quickly as the fire had ignited, Hermione suddenly found that she had run out of steam. Feeling her shoulders drop with shame, she lowered her eyes to the nearby fountain, noting that a layer of ice covered the emptiness inside, cracked and blurred in its fragile state. Hermione sighed deeply, but it offered no relief. She could tell the Prince was watching her carefully, no doubt wary of this inexplicable transformation. She cleared her throat gently, and spoke more softly now, but she couldn't keep the distress from her voice entirely. She did not turn back to face him, did not look for his reaction, but merely whispered, with true, pained curiosity.

"Why are you so committed to ensuring my misery?"

* * *

For a few moments, Draco simply couldn't move. One moment, the girl was a raging ball of fire, mane flaring, heart racing and teeth bared, and the next—she had deflated. He stared at her small form, hung with disappointment and confusion, and with a pang, he suddenly thought of Pansy.

But the thought was shaken from his conscientiousness almost instantly. This girlwas not Pansy; _Pansy_ had sense. He turned his head to the side sharply, staring intently at the rock walls surrounding them with a familiar sense of hatred. _Don't you realize, you stupid girl?_ Draco glared at the trees beyond. _I'm just as much a prisoner here as you are_.

He opened his mouth to spit out a searing remark, something no doubt just as incendiary and critical as his earlier comments, but stopped himself before he could form the sounds. This insignificant rube had exhausted him of enough patience to last him a lifetime, and he'd already had half a mind to call the whole quest off before he'd even gotten _near_ this point… And this, he felt, was a moment. With just a few words, he could end it all now. _"Run along now, peasant. You're free. No point in _both_ of us being imprisoned, so I release you. What's that? Misery loves company? Oh, no worries—I'm much more miserable with you around, anyway, so you're really just doing me a favor. Promise."_

At least the path before him would finally be certain. He would tell Snape that she was not the one, that the prophecy was flawed, and then Draco would finally be the one to have the last shred of control over his fate.

But…

His kingdom. His memories. His freedom.

Her tears.

"Because…" Draco cleared his throat with difficulty, attempting to defuse the primitive harshness of the sounds. Hermione had been so lost in her own thoughts that she jumped upon hearing the tenor of his voice, and turned back to him with hardly concealed surprise. He hesitated, looking into her suspicious eyes with obvious deliberation.

He had never noticed before that they were brown.

"I'm not _committed_ to anyone's misery," Draco started gruffly, shifting uncomfortably. But Hermione had cocked her head slightly to the side and her eyes had widened slightly, intrigued by his new behavior, and he felt the knot between his brows loosen slightly at the intensity of her attention. "It's simply that... I've been miserable for so long that I'm not sure I remember _how_ to make anyone happy."

* * *

Hermione blinked.

_What on Earth?_ Her mind reeled. _Is he serious? He's like a child! _But as she stared at his domineering form more carefully, she realized that he _was _serious; he was quite possibly speaking more genuinely with her now than he had ever done before. She took in the shape of his tightly wound body and the rigidity of his stance, and felt herself shift under his alert gaze. A feeling of relief suddenly washed over her, for she realized that a _real_ shred of humanity had finally been presented to her… however, despite this feeling, the remaining agitation that coursed through her wasn't yet entirely assuaged.

He was waiting for her response, and in his cold, critical eyes she could already see him deciding to be charier with his words in the future. The raging fire of battle between them had subsided—for now—but there was a new feeling in the air between them, something that crackled with uncertainty and… a different kind of tension. For some reason, this foreign aura around them was already making Hermione even more unsettled, and she knew that she needed to break through it.

"That's got to be the worst excuse I've ever heard."

* * *

Draco rounded on her—how _dare_ she—didn't she know what it took for him to come to terms with that, let alone say it _aloud_? He snarled, prepared to drive her off his grounds—prepared to chase her all the way back to her rotten shack, if he had to—when she laughed.

But it wasn't mocking. It was pure. And the sound of it alarmed him.

"What I mean is, if all you were looking for was a way out of that vicious cycle of arguments, your highness, then all you had to do was say so."

Draco glared, but was appropriately subdued. For once, he did not speak, and he was surprised to find that he simply had no idea what to say. There was a small, tentative smile of curiosity on her face that looked out of place with it directed at him, but he couldn't bring himself to return the favor. It had been years since he had truly smiled, and there would be no amendment to that fact today. Draco Malfoy was not a royal to be trifled with, and certainly not a royal to be laughed at, no matter what this silly girl thought. A deeply set wall was still in place, surrounding him, and he held onto it fiercely as a barricade… but in the back of his mind, a distant part of himself realized with mounting disquiet that something about her laughter had gotten underneath, settling itself in, and he wondered with a detached sense of observation if something might be shifting.

Might.

"Look," Hermione said with an awkward cough when she realized that his highness would not be the next to speak. "Let's make a deal, shall we?" Draco suddenly awoke from his haze, and offered her a scowl.

"I don't negotiate with commoners," he spat, attempting to regain the fire of the fight that had just a moment ago been extinguished; he had felt much more comfortable then, when he felt like had a semblance of an idea of what kind of attack to next anticipate.

"Well, you're in luck, because I'm rather uncommon," she quipped, the tight smile at her lips lessening only slightly. Her eyes, on the other hand, brightened considerably with the promise of a challenge.

Draco eyed the bushy-haired creature before him. _Understatement_, he thought. "What does this proposal entail exactly?" He crossed his arms indomitably, and raised a brow. He hoped he looked annoyed and bored, instead of annoyed and curious. Either way, she just looked surprised.

"You'd be willing to consider it?"

"Probably not."

"You haven't even heard it yet!"

"Which is why you should probably save your breath and elaborate before I lose my patience." _Too late._ "Explain."

"Well," she said with a business-like tone, and he watched with sharp eyes as she took a step closer. Her entire demeanor had gone from _feral_ to conciliative in a matter of moments, and Draco was finding it hard to keep up. With each word, Draco felt himself getting drawn by her discomfiting vagaries into hopeless, unsettling confusion. "As long as you're going to insist on these outings, we'll obviously be spending quite a bit of time together. Since our current routine of nearly ripping out each other's throats—"

"Each _other's_? Need I remind you of what I am? I hardly doubt that you could—"

"—obviously isn't functional, we'll need to change tactics. I propose a strategy of sorts: it's very clear that there is a great deal about each of us that the other can tolerate _less_ easily—"

"Tolerate being a _loose_ term."

"—and one way that we can try to avoid those pitfalls as much as possible is to find a sort of compromise about each of them."

"Did you just say the word _compromise_? I'm not sure if you're familiar with the system of a monarchy, girl, but _compromise_ isn't exactly compatible with—"

"Lovely," Hermione cut in, ignoring his growl and letting the smile melt away from her lips. "You've brought me back to our first topic on the list: my name."

"What about it?"

Hermione eyed him impatiently. "You have to start using it. As part of our deal."

"We aren't _making_ any deals."

"What about this is so difficult? You start using my name and I give you something you want in return! In exchange for one simple word, uttered simply on occasion, I can promise to do something that will alleviate, ah… some of the _unpleasantness_ of my stay in return." Draco huffed indignantly, and bared his teeth as if to bite out another scathing retort. Then with a sniff, he turned away nonchalantly.

"I won't remember it."

Hermione fumed silently, staring at his back with all the force she could muster. "All right, then," she sighed dramatically, and stared at her nails, unconcerned. "In that case, I just might forget to bathe." She flexed her fingers as Draco twitched. "I'm sure that would be agreeable to such sensitive olfactory organs as yours."

"I could simply throw you into the lake," Draco rolled his eyes. _And forget to retrieve you_.

"It would be much easier to just remember a simple name, don't you think?" Draco growled low and deep in the back of his throat, and turned back toward her, contemplating. She tried to hide her smirk.

"_Debatably_. But you aren't allowed to touch me again, no matter how clean you _think_ you are."

Hermione released an incredulous bark of laughter as her nose wrinkled. "Deal. As long as you don't run around and get shot again."

"What I don't understand is how you knew to get the bullet out anyways," Draco said suspiciously, taking a moment to pause in their mild concessions settlement. Hermione shrugged.

"What's there to know?" Hermione said indifferently, but her voice had grown guarded. "I've worked on a farm all my life, as you are no doubt well aware. Individuals were always injured for some reason or other, and I grew skilled in tending to wounds."

"Bullet wounds?" He asked skeptically. She shrugged again.

"Similar."

Draco stared hard at the girl for a moment longer, trying to determine the strange shifts in behavior that had been occurring since their arrival in the courtyard. As she stood there waiting for his next move, she gave away nothing, and Draco felt curious in spite of himself.

"So what am I supposed to call you?" He asked condescendingly, not letting on for one moment that he actually promised to abide by this charade. Hermione saw the dubiousness in his eyes clearly, but took a step closer anyway.

"My name is Hermione Granger."

* * *

For a moment the Prince did nothing but stare at her, and Hermione worried that perhaps she had said something else instead by mistake. "All right," he said suddenly, breaking through her worries. "Granger it is, then." Hermione nodded slowly in consideration.

"So what do I get to call you?" He looked positively affronted.

"What kind of a question is that?"

Hermione shrugged, already finding herself more at ease with his baffling irritability. "Well, I'm sure that _your_ _excellency_ must get a bit tiring. Why not something of a different variety?" And just like that, the Prince was back on the defensive, already shoving his razor-sharp fangs closer to where she could see them, as if she couldn't already hear his staggering snarl. "Ugh," she groaned, feeling thoroughly irritated, herself. She tilted forward, leaning closer until she was almost nose-to-nose with his snout. "Hasn't anyone ever told you what a nasty temper you have?"

"My servants usually have a tad more sensibility when it comes to staying out of trouble," he all but growled.

"Meaning that you have them all too frightened to so much as _blink_."

Draco started, as if taken aback by her words. He recovered quickly, however, and continued with a blank mask. "I'll have you know that there is a _reason_ that this kingdom is not yet totally in ruins—if you think that you have any idea of it is like to be in my position, you are sorely mistaken."

"Who on Earth said anything about claiming to understand? If anything, I think I've made it abundantly clear that I _don't_ understand."

_But I'm trying to_.

Hermione shook her head quickly, brushing away that strange, foreign feeling once more. "All I'm saying is that I don't see why you have to treat them all so—"

"You wanted to make a deal?" Draco cut her off. "How about this: you don't bother yourself with how I interact with _my _subjects _and_ you keep yourself as far from malodorous as possible, and you can find yourself allowed to enter the courtyard at your own leisure." Hermione glared vehemently, but found herself still surprised at his infinitesimal extension of her freedom.

"You know it's not right."

"I have many advisors on my staff, girl. I do not seek counsel from _you_."

"Here we go again with the 'girl' nonsense! How am I supposed to keep my end of the bargain if you're already breaking yours?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "Fine. I will make a greater effort to remember the name that seems to mean so much to you, as well, but heed my words, _Granger_," his low voice rumbled dangerously. "Stay out of my affairs. This includes my dealings with _my_ servants." Hermione glared.

"You're not even trying."

* * *

His father's scowl forced itself before his eyes, and Draco had to stop himself before he gave himself away with a gasp. _You are weak_, it screamed. He ignored it for the time being, staring long and hard at the girl before him instead, and Hermione found herself found herself momentarily thrown off by the sudden severity of his gaze. _Oh? Not trying? _He thought, shifting himself toward her slowly, predatorily. _You have absolutely no idea_.

"I am not inclined to make promises I know I may not keep," he said with a hard look in his eye, and Hermione found that it was becoming increasingly difficult to swallow. "Let me tell you what, Granger. Keep yourself out of my affairs as far as my servants and my interactions are concerned, and the courtyard _and _the garden are yours."

Hermione was surprised, in spite of herself, again. "Garden?"

"Yes," Draco sighed in annoyance. Oh, how he hated to repeat himself. "What, is that not enough for you? Getting a little carried away with your greed now, aren't you?"

"But a garden even in the winter?" Apparently, she had stopped listening to him, and had begun mumbling excitedly to herself under her breath. She was perplexed, but understanding suddenly shone in her eyes after a moment with surprising force. "You mean one of those botanical gardens?" There was wonder in her tone, and Draco was once again exhausted by the rapid changes that this conversation had endured in only the last half hour. Plus, it appeared that her excitement was starting to bubble over, and Draco felt himself leaning away from her instinctively. "I thought they only had those in Italy! Do they really work? I've only read about them, but—"

"I'm certain," Draco interrupted, uncomfortable. 'Angry, Impudent Peasant-Girl' now seemed like a more tolerable creature to handle; 'Volatile, Easily-Excitable _Granger_' did not. "That my servants would be more than happy to show them to you." His strained attempt at politeness only made the dismissal all the more clear.

* * *

Hermione paused, only just realizing that she had been babbling. Normally, she would have been a little embarrassed about reverting back to her childhood habit, but she couldn't bring herself to think too much of it at the moment. She sent the Prince a sidelong glance, curious. He _was_ trying, she realized, as she took in his obvious discomfort and the way it contrasted with the determined lines of his form. For so long Hermione had seen him as a wolf playing with his prey, and she, the cornered rabbit at the unfortunate end of the line. But now?

He looked more like the skittish rabbit than the hunting wolf.

She was hit with the sudden, indescribable urge to thank him, for whatever his reasoning was, but she had a very strong feeling that drawing attention to his act of kindness might only just invite him to act up again. She had inadvertently (and purposefully) provoked him on many occasions, but she would be grateful if—just for once—they could avoid an unnecessary argument. _If only he could have behaved this, ah, __civilly__ at dinner the other night! If he had just stayed this calm—_

But perhaps…

_The dining hall must have been difficult for him_, Hermione thought suddenly, looking up at him with newfound clarity. _When was the last time he even sat at a dining room table, I wonder? Would I have been able to behave any better, if it were I? _

"What?" Draco asked gruffly. He had sensed her movement, and had turned his head toward her in alarm.

_He __is_ _trying, _she marveled, making a decision even in the same moment that she questioned her ability to believe it. _He really is_. _But why?_ Hermione just shook her head slightly, and a small smile suddenly graced her lips. He looked at her with blatant mistrust, and she worried that he might jump to the conclusion that she was smiling at his expense, but somehow… she hoped that he would understand that that wasn't the case.

He was already leading her back to the entrance to the castle when Hermione could feel her mood lightening; no doubt it was relief at the fact that they were finally going to part ways for the evening, she assumed. And yet… she felt like she was only juststarting to get an idea of what went through that thick skull of his, and she wasn't quite sure if she wanted this to be the last of her discoveries.

The Prince, on the other hand, appeared to just be relieved in general. The promise and anticipation of a quiet evening was emanating off him in waves. Instead of being angry and indignant, like she might have felt in this situation before, she felt curious… and a little amused.

"Well, _Granger_," Draco cleared his throat as they reached the threshold, allowing her name to become an insult. "I trust that you'll find your way back to your quarters. This may be difficult for someone of your nature, but please do try to keep your end of the agreement and remember to _wash_, or we might have renege on our bargain." He was fighting very hard to keep his tone acidic, but Hermione could tell that all he wanted to do was to get away from her. She tilted her head to the side.

"Forgive me, but there's just one more thing, your highness."

"What_ now?_"

"Thank you," she said, going against her earlier judgment and all but startling his majesty. "For the walk in the courtyard." The knowing glint in her eye made the Prince uneasy. "It was much more preferable to the dinner arrangement."

* * *

Draco stared at her for a long moment, tightening his eyes in deliberation. "It seems that we are in agreement, yet again." Her light laughter rolled over him with the breeze.

"I think we've outstretched our quota for the day, then," she said with a low curtsy. "Which means that I'll be going now, lest we push our luck."

"Right," Draco said, looking at her, but seeing something else entirely.

With an uncertain nod of her head, Hermione parted at exactly the same moment that Draco turned in the opposite direction. She continued down the corridor toward the dreaded staircase that would no doubt lead her to a pack of furniture pieces that would not _rest_ until they were sufficiently informed. Hermione was already lost in thought, considering the possible evasive tactics necessary for such a situation, when Draco glanced back behind him to see the girl making her way through the heart of his castle.

_Luck_, he thought dubiously with a huff, rising through the spiral staircases until he came to the Astronomy Tower. _Preposterous._ And yet, he paused, looking toward the vast sea of pine before him and the sunset that swirled above the branches in waves. The day was ending, and for once, Draco felt curious about the morning.

_Luck_.

Draco placed an elbow at his bent knee, resting his knuckles at the base of his snout, and allowed himself—not hope, never hope, because he knew better than that—to acknowledge his anticipation of tomorrow.

"I suppose we'll see… Granger."

Draco muttered the words, releasing a curious laugh; the bitterness and amusement crinkled themselves together in the sounds, and he couldn't decide if the words sounded more like a challenge, or a promise.

* * *

And yet neither of them had noticed the face staring up at them from the bottom of the courtyard fountain, peering through the cracks and grime of the forgotten space of ice… calculating.

* * *

_Enough is enough_, Ron thought fiercely, jamming another map into his satchel and grabbing his cloak from one of the three hooks on Hermione's wall. _Everyone else may have given up on her, but __I__ haven't. I'll go in and get her myself._ He meandered through the house, grabbing supplies and ensuring that everything was in its rightful place, including a note of explanation to Harry and Ginny. Just as he was about to round the corner and head toward the back door, Ron caught sight of Hermione's only mirror. Instead of seeing his own reflection, however, a young woman was staring back at him.

He blinked.

"Ah," the woman sighed, exasperated. "About time. I thought you'd gone back down to the tavern again to continue on with your uselessness."

He screamed.

"What the—bloody _hell_—"

"Oh, quiet down, you _buffoon_," the figure spat impatiently as Ron flailed, his throat releasing a strangled sound. "And watch your tongue in front of a _lady_. I won't have you making this last any longer than it absolutely has to."

"There's a girl in the mirror," Ron muttered, horrified, as he slowly backed away. "And she's _talking_."

"My, you're even more clever in conversation than from what I've seen in my simple observations," she bit out scornfully.

"I'm sorry," Ron stated slowly, his anger rising despite his still half-dazed state. "I am currently talking to a _mirror—_an incredibly prissy, bossy, self-righteous mirror at that—and I haven't had a single drink in me tonight, by the way—can you please tell me how I am supposed to _not _find this alarming?" Ron visibly paled as he rambled. "And now I'm talking back. I'm going effing bonkers." He'd never blame his beloved gin again; it was all him, godammit, it was _all_ him.

"You, Ronald Weasley," she began testily. "Despite all of my instincts exclaiming otherwise, are not insane." She sighed. "I've come to explain something to you, and to propose a partnership."

"How do you know my name?" Ron demanded, his suspicion rearing with his indignation. "Who are you? And how the_ hell _are you _talking?_"

"If you could just _listen_, I'd be obliged to explain it to you," she snipped. "Provided that you can follow along."

"All right, you," Ron practically sputtered, pointing a finger at the mirror; he couldn't decide if it was because he needed to regain some modicum of control, or if it was because he needed to convince himself that she was still there and he just wasn't bloody seeing things again. "You better start talking, and you better start talking _fast_."

"Charming," the lilt of the woman's voice informed him that she considered him anything but. "I, for one, will never understand why Hermione Granger is so drawn to you, but to each their own, I suppose."

Ron's form wilted as if she'd struck him in the gut. "Her… Hermione?"

The woman smiled fetchingly. "My name is Pansy," she announced with all of the purpose of a conqueror claiming her prize. "And I've come to you with a proposition."

Ron watched as the figure named Pansy crossed her arms, staring at him expectantly. There was something about her demeanor that all at once set his body on edge and compelled him to make a run for it—probably something to do with the fact that she was a _fucking talking mirror_—but she had said Hermione's name with such confidence and such… confidentiality. Ron contemplated her—this Pansy—for a moment longer.

Thoroughly unsettled, he assumed a defensive stance and a suspicious frown.

"I'm listening."

* * *

**Author's End Notes: **All right… Sorry, everyone! Classes are right around the corner, and life will be back in action before I know it. It might be another month or so before an update, just as a heads up!

To **An Avid Reader** & **browniris93**: Oh my goodness, _thank you_. Let me just tell you: your reviews were so very much appreciated! Although this story is being revived mainly for my own personal creativity needs (as well as due to **Kite1011**'s prodding), and I don't often feel as though the number of reviews dictates my motivation to continue to write, it _is_ sometimes a little discouraging to see the difference between how many hits this story receives on my traffic records and the number of reviews I actually receive for each chapter… Seeing just how many readers pass through on my story without taking a moment to drop their thoughts can be a bit of a buzz-kill, ha.

Thus, it is so refreshing and _so_appreciated when I receive reviews that are so in-depth, so detailed, and written with such specific examples, points and comments. Thank you, sincerely, for taking those few minutes to reenergize me. I hope the upcoming chapters live up to your expectations!

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far! :) Seriously.


	17. Significance & Sconces

**Author****'****s**** Notes:** _10/13/11_. OH MY GOSH, THIS TOOK FOREVER.

In the near two months it's taken for me to get this rolling, a few things of importance have reserved their spots for this A/N:

- To be honest, what was intended for this chapter alone has now been split into two separate chapters. As I got into writing, I suddenly realized that trying to fit all that I was trying to make fit into this segment alone was crazy-talk, and so I decided to make the split. Besides, this chapter update took far too long. On the bright side, the _**next **__**chapter **__**is **__**already **__**80% **__**completed**_, and should be completed, polished, and published in no more than two-three weeks _tops_!

- I am owning up to the fact that I am not well-versed in _**old**__** English**_. There are colloquialisms in this fic that could never hope to have been a part of eighteenth century England, but for the sake of my sanity and the flow of the dialogue, I hope you won't mind too much.

- Ignore everything you know about the characters' _**birthdays**_. I obviously hadn't done quite as much research as I should have when I was fourteen, and now Draco's birthday has somehow ended up being October 21st and Hermione's birthday is… well. I'm not really sure. Whatever, it's not important. D:

- Being able to go back and review my writing from so many years ago has been a very enlightening experience, but it's also been very painful to revise. The segment of this story that I suffered the most from rereading was the Prologue, and in a fit of inspiration and an urge to play with my writing style**,**I went back and completely revamped it. Go check out the _**Prologue**_ after this chapter, and see what you think of it!

- October 6, 2010 was the day that **Kite1011** made the catalyst review that spiked my inspiration for this fic once more! :) So it's now been a full year since _Monstrosity_ has been back in business. And if _that_ wasn't already enough, this lovelylovelylovely girl has honored this story with a beautiful piece of _**concept **__**art!**_ Please behold its glory by hitting up the link on my profile, or using the following link:  
**http:****[slash]****[slash]****tae-****[dot]****deviantart****[dot]****com****[slash]****art****[slash]****HP-Monstrosity-255410669**

* * *

Chapter 17: Significance… & Sconces

* * *

_Coming__ out __of __the __darkness__ now  
Walking__ into __the __light  
I've__ been__ making__ so __many __wrong __turns __in __life  
It's __time __to __make __them__ right_

- "Out of the Darkness," **Sarah**** Dawn****Finer**

* * *

"It's so… soggy."

Blaise looked up, mortified. "But it's fresh!"

"Not the _bread_," Hermione clarified. "Outside. It's just so damp."

They turned their gazes to follow Hermione's, noting the gentle patter of raindrops falling against the windows. Barren of the fiery, leafy ensembles they had displayed just a few weeks before, the trees were now losing the fresh coat of snow to the warmer bout of rain. Dean found the familiar sounds soothing, and had been slowly nodding off over his breakfast muffin when Hermione suddenly voiced her comment.

"It's England, my dear," Blaise said through a mouthful of porridge. "I'd think you'd be used to the frequent changes."

"I know," she said shortly, and then sighed as a crease formed between her brows. "I mean, I _am_. I was just hoping that, for once, things wouldn't change so drastically all of a sudden." Blaise and Dean paused, immediately sharing a curious look over the woodwork, while Neville continued on with his own porridge.

"Oh?" Blaise inquired wily. "And have there been drastic changes as of recent?"

"The weather," Hermione said blandly, and put her bowl down with a soft, solemn thud.

"Is there anything _else_ you'd like to mention, perchance?"

Hermione stared thoughtfully at the artistry of the drops dancing along the glass, and gave a soft, distracted shrug.

"Ah," he murmured, and sent a furtive look in the paintbrush's direction.

"Well," Dean began, feeling a bit of nervousness creep into his handle, along with the dampness of the air. "We couldn't help but overhear Parvati and Lavender talking yesterday about your stroll through the courtyard with the master, and understandably, we're a bit… curious."

Neville's little branch stopped halfway in placing the next spoonful into his mouth, and his eyes widened, gaze jumping upward in surprise. Blaise leaned just the slightest bit forward in anticipation, but Dean didn't think the candlestick even noticed. Hermione slowly glanced in Dean's direction, before pinning Blaise and Neville with a serious look. "I don't see what they would have had to talk about," she replied guardedly. "I certainly didn't mention anything to either of them."

"But that's the thing!" Blaise suddenly burst out from his place at the table's edge. "That only makes them more determined! They just look for the information _harder_. I'm sure they sent word to one of the sconces outside the courtyard's entrance for research!"

Hermione blinked in surprise, and then her lips were at war between a smile and a grimace. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Word is that you and the master were out for a rather lengthy period of time," Dean prompted.

"Oh?" Hermione turned with an amused quirk of her brow. "And the castle is wondering how we managed to survive each other's presence for so long without sustaining any major injuries?"

"Come on, Hermione!" Blaise nearly pouted. "Spill!"

"You sound like Parvati and Lavender," she chided, clucking her tongue. And then, to Dean's surprise, Neville's astonishment, and Blaise's twittering eagerness, Hermione picked her bowl back up off of the table with a small, vague smile upon her lips. Dean's mind rapidly processed this new development as he watched her take what could only be described as a satisfied spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth.

"I knew it!" Blaise cheered, sputtering his not-yet-swallowed meal as he cheered on with an open mouth. Hermione eyed his trail with mild distaste, and pulled her bowl back safely out of his range. "You're getting on with the master much better now, aren't you?" Hermione couldn't answer immediately.

"Well, I wouldn't say—"

"Miss Hermione, this is great news!" Neville applauded.

"We knew you had it in you!" Blaise smiled with newfound brightness. "If anyone could find a way to hold their own in his arena, it had to be you! I told you it wouldn't be so difficult to get along! All you had to do was—"

"We _aren__'__t _getting along," Hermione cut in forcefully, setting her bowl back down a little less gently this time. Blaise stepped back.

"You're not?"

"Well," she conceded. "Not exactly."

"So," Neville attempted to clarify. "Nothing's changed?" When Hermione didn't respond right away, and instead soundlessly moved her lips as she searched for a way to explain, Neville plowed onward. "Then what were you doing in the courtyard for so long?" he asked curiously. "Did you have another fight?"

Hermione paused. "That was certainly part of it."

"Part?" Blaise mused carefully. "And how large was this particular part?"

"How 'large' in terms of what?" Hermione said with a teasing lilt to her voice, seemingly amused by his interest in such trivial particulars. "In terms of duration or significance?"

"Well, what is the significance of '_significance__'_?" he hedged, and with meaning. Hermione must have seen a glint of something in his eyes that made her reconsider her words because she stiffened slightly and pulled away as if she were suddenly aware of what she'd been saying… or about to say.

"Nothing," she said quickly, and dismissed Blaise's words with a slight wave of the hand. Dean glowered at his steadily failing partner while the candlestick struggled to turn the conversation around. "We just came to an arrangement of sorts."

"Arrangement?" Blaise echoed in disbelief. "That's all you're telling us? Hermione, this is cruel! What is this newfound reticence? We're your humble servants! Would you really have me go pester the courtyard sconces for information as well?" His trademark eyes begged her silently, waxy residue and all. Hermione couldn't help but laugh, which only made him frown.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Blaise, I couldn't help it," she said from behind the cup of her fingers. "Look, I obviously have no control over what you do, or to whom you turn for help in becoming the next resident castle busybody. However, should you visit these mysterious sconces, you should know that you'd be absolutely no different from the wardrobe collection in my eyes, and then my only option would be to take pity on your soul." And as she gently flicked the tarnished edge of his base with a smile, Blaise couldn't help but be mollified.

"Alas," Blaise lamented. "You've wormed your way into my forgiveness even through mockery. The Master must not have stood a chance." Hermione frowned.

"Honestly," she said with more seriousness. "There's really nothing to tell."

"Then why are you so reluctant to share, my fair Hermione?" Blaise griped.

Hermione paused, and a suspicious tilt deepened the curve of her brow. "Why are you so anxious to know?" she responded cagily.

Dean gulped. _Turn __back__ now,__ Blaise!__ Quick, __before __it__'__s __too__ late!__ She __mustn__'__t__ catch __on!_

"Please, my Hermione," the candlestick said, his tone smooth and placating. "Is it too much for a servant to wish his respected master and dearest guest of honor to achieve peace?" He took it one step further, angling his eyes once more in a way that Dean supposed girls like Bridgett found dashing; Hermione, of course, still seemed immune. "Indulge a hopeful heart!"

_All __right,_ Dean deadpanned. He could feel a twitch forming at his bristly temple. _______Laying it on there a little thick, Mr. So-Called-Romantic. _

"Oh, Blaise," Hermione laughed, and her tone told Dean that she agreed. "You're too much."

As Hermione resumed her breakfast meal with relative peace, the candlestick opened its mouth once more… and faltered as Dean surreptitiously pelted it with a raisin from his muffin. At Blaise's affronted gaze, Dean jerked his bristles in a firm negative.

_No __way,_he warned the moping candlestick with a glare. ___You've done quite enough for one morning, thank you very much._

* * *

"You haven't done nearly enough," Snape's booming drawl reverberated across the bricks of the empty corridor.

"But—"

"Honestly, gentlemen," Madam McGonagall sighed. "Have you even attempted to make her see the Master in a different light?"

"She's been here for nearly two weeks, and we have nothing to show for it. How… _unexpected_," Snape added, eyes rolling disdainfully in their sockets.

"We'll have you know that Hermione and the Master have recently come to an arrangement of sorts," Blaise cut in, wishing more than ever that he had a finger to wag. "That's got to count for something!"

"Oh?" McGonagall said curiously. "What sort of arrangement?"

Blaise hesitated. "A brand new one."

Snape stared. "You haven't the slightest idea."

The candlestick tossed the cauldron a defensive huff. "She hasn't elaborated just yet. She's _going_ to tell us eventually."

"Just like you would have arranged a meeting between Miss Granger and the Master… eventually?" Snape _tutted_ slowly, pouring his condescension into the sounds. "How… _lucky_, we are then, that Draco finally got his act together on his own and made something of the situation, or else we'd still be waiting for you to beat around the proverbial bush."

"How do you even know about any of this?" Blaise demanded suspiciously. "Have you been talking to courtyard sconces?"

"What?" McGonagall asked, just as Snape decided that he might as well prepare for nothing but the inner darkness of his pewter frame for all of eternity.

"Blaise, please shut up," Dean begged with a whisper.

"It's a valid question! We were given strict orders to report straight to the Master! How are we supposed to know what they're doing here?"

"Because I called them here."

The stunned creatures turned to the form moving about the shadows, which soon emerged from a nearby corridor. The Prince strode along the stone with long, easy glides, and it was but a silent moment before he was towering over them in the remote alcove.

"Your majesty," Madam McGonagall acknowledged with a slight tilt of her fabric.

"Sire," Snape said evenly as a dark brow slid upward.

The paintbrush had grown very stiff, and the poor potted plant looked as if it might crack as the slightest prod. Blaise looked back and forth among the highest-ranking officials in his midst, and once again wondered how they had ever gotten themselves into this position.

"So we've been _invited_ back into the affairs, have we?" McGonagall asked pointedly, with just the right amount of snit to make her feelings known without being undignified.

"For the time being," Draco responded, already sounding irritated and tired. "Now that things have been set into motion, it is vital that the castle is… _united_ in their efforts."

"Meaning," Snape drawled, sending a rather intrusive glare at the small pot at the opposite wall. "That our first priority is enhancing Miss Granger's perception of the Master."

"Anything less than one hundred percent focus on this task is completely unacceptable," she declared. "We were only given three months, and two weeks have already passed! The situation is critical."

"We cannot afford mistakes," Snape enunciated with painful precision, allowing his eyes to bore into trembling leaves of the pot.

"I have called you all here to ensure that we are on the same page," Draco began once more, oblivious to the psychological trauma occurring a meter or so below him. "Later this afternoon, I will be making my next move. In order for this to be… successful," Draco paused as he released some of the tension at the juncture between his neck and shoulder. "The support of the castle will be necessary on all fronts."

"All interactions should include a testament of his character," McGonagall nodded, deep in thought. "We must build him up in her eyes!"

"And stretching the truth to do so is not out of the question," Snape remarked offhandedly, but his eyes glimmered with dark delight as Draco turned to glare at the cauldron for the jibe.

"Find out her concerns so that we may learn how to best address them," McGonagall continued on, ignoring the lack of professionalism from her counterparts. "Identify her weaknesses and other interests, so that we may use those to our advantage. Continue to determine the most effective courses of action for creating a connection between her and the castle. Play on her desires to help break the spell, and begin planting notions of favor toward the Master. Every member of this kingdom is responsible for supporting and executing this strategy. Understood?"

"Yes, Madam," Dean said with a simple bow. Neville shuddered an even smaller one, willing himself to ignore the cauldron not more than a meter away.

"I'm expecting _impressive_ results from you, Zabini," Draco said with piercing, narrowed eyes, and Blaise gulped under the pressure he suddenly felt being shifted onto his metaphorical shoulders. The threat was implied, but clear as day. "You are the ringleader of sorts, are you not?"

"Well—Right. Of course, Sire," he managed with a stiff nod. "May we have the privilege of knowing what next lies in store for the girl?"

"In order to better prepare her, your highness," Dean rushed out with a deep bow. Blaise sent him a look, and was about to cough out a derogatory comment, when he realized that the paintbrush had a knack for _not_ making enemies with royalty. Thus, he took a note from Dean, and bowed just as deeply.

The Prince looked down upon them as he considered their request, and then with a sniff that hinted more at his aristocratic upbringing than at his canine features, he carefully removed a piece of dust from his shoulder. "Ensure that she brings a cloak of her own this time."

Blaise couldn't help but sneak an upward glance at the towering Master. "Another walk, your highness? What a splendid—"

"Comments, Zabini," Draco drawled, overpowering the excited voice of the candlestick. "Are best kept to yourself."

"Yes, Sire," Blaise muttered, returning his gaze back to the stones beneath his base.

"You are welcome to exchange information amongst yourselves," Draco continued on. "But any and all reports will ultimately be delivered to me each night." His warning glare immediately seared into the three servants. "Do not be late."

"Yes, your majesty," they responded softly, in unison.

"Very well," he said decidedly. "Carry on with your duties. I will be moving forward with my plan this evening… See to it that my character is appropriately endorsed. Dismissed."

And without waiting for a response, he left. Sir Snape and Madam McGonagall did not linger, and were soon following his shadow down into the bowels of the castle.

"Well," Blaise began awkwardly, when he was comfortable with the distance between them all. "This changes things."

"It does and it doesn't," Dean responded with a sigh.

"What do you mean by that?" the candlestick asked with a skeptical brow.

"It does in that we'll have to strengthen our approach from now on, for certain," Dean noted, the wheels in his head already turning. "But… he still makes it incredibly difficult for anyone to root for him, doesn't he?"

* * *

Unfortunately, the servants struggled to find the right opportunities for their latest task, though they fiercely attended to each and every word their guest uttered. It wasn't until long after lunchtime, as they were still lingering in the kitchens in order to milk a mid-afternoon snack from the matronly teapot, Katie Bell, that they were offered anything of significance.

"It's interesting that no one ever really refers to it as a palace," Hermione observed, taking a sip of warm tea.

"Well, milady," Dean responded grimly. "When one thinks of a grand, luxurious palace, does that mental image really match up with the sight you see before you?" Hermione frowned.

"No, I suppose not."

"Bloody right, it's not. This wasteland is nothing more than a highly-stacked pile of gray bricks that has too much moss and dust on it to even be considered a suitable lighthouse," Blaise grouched, stuffing more crackers into his mouth.

"Oh, but it used to be such a grand castle," Neville sighed. "It used to have the greatest balls and the most opulent furnishings."

"How would you know?" Blaise sniggered. "You were so clumsy, Snapey never even allowed you within two floors of the balls!" Neville's little leaves turned red.

"Doesn't mean I didn't find a nice ventilation shaft to sneak up and look every now and then, does it?" Neville turned back to Hermione. "I promise, it used to have the most affluent Lords and Ladies from all over the world, and the dances would last so late into the morning that the sun itself must have resented us, to have to retire before we did." Hermione's head fell slightly to the side, and she smiled softly.

"Neville," she said gently. "That was beautiful. What a lovely thought—quite like poetry."

"Do you like poetry?" Blaise stopped immediately, glancing at Dean. This information could be useful.

"I can certainly appreciate fine prose," Hermione confessed. She considered it more thoroughly. "In all honestly, I prefer grand stories of fiction, with adventure and mystery over poetic verses, but words and languages of nearly all kinds interest me." She smiled more broadly now, and Dean could see her eyes lighting in such a way that they had not seen before. Didn't the Master know another language? Or two?

"Indeed!" Blaise rose from his seat, jumping to the table and puffing out what was assumed to be his chest. With great drama, he proclaimed, "Tales of dark secrets, of dashing rogues and lovely ladies, of cunning twists and sword fights?"

"Of course," Hermione nodded, amused still.

"And of good versus evil, of magic, and—"

"And pirates!" The candlestick glared at Neville for having been interrupted, but Hermione had started laughing softly. He was so surprised to hear her laughter after a rather morose day that he almost forgot to be angry. Almost.

"All the better," Hermione looked to all three of them, and sighed. Her smile weakened, but did not disappear, and Blaise was determined to keep it there—this could lead to important clues on how their Master could woo the fair Hermione, he knew. And Blaise, of course, never had any qualms about making a pretty girl smile.

"Pirates," Blaise laughed scornfully. "If you're into that sort of thing. But what one really, really needs in a story—well, do you want to know?" Blaise looked suggestively toward Hermione, and waggled his eyebrows in the way that Hermione had only _thought_ she'd grown accustomed.

"Revenge?" Dean suggested disinterestedly.

"What?" Blaise scowled. "No, no, no, my friend! Not revenge," Blaise purred as he sauntered toward Hermione. "_Romance_."

Dean allowed his bristles to plummet to the table.

"I'm a fan," Hermione replied steadily. "Although I much prefer a story that is overflowing with action and contains a romantic journey along the way."

_Duly__ noted_, Dean nodded slightly, glancing to Blaise. _I wonder what the Prince will do when he finds out that he may have to read _poetry_ to Hermione_... Dean hoped that they could find an alternative course of courting for the Master, for he had a feeling that their lives would end all too quickly otherwise.

"Ahh, not I," Blaise announced, his voice velvet. "I am a _true_ romantic."

"_Womanizer_," Neville coughed, and Blaise immediately glanced back with a deadly stare. Neville merely inspected his soil innocently, and Hermione's laughter rang softly over the sound of Blaise's sputtering.

"But really," Hermione said, placing her elbows on the table and leaning forward with great interest. "Tell me more about what the castle used to be like."

"Oh, such great finery," Blaise started. "The most expensive riches for kingdoms around, the best imported goods, the highest thread counts in every sheet of fabric—no expense was spared." Blaise was motioning to the paintbrush to join in, when Dean suddenly got an idea.

"Our people were happy," Dean said with a small smile. "We were all happy." The candlestick glanced cautiously back at brush, wondering why he was taking such a pleasant conversation toward a more somber note.

"I'm sorry," Hermione frowned, and Blaise's mind panicked. _No!_ _All__ is __lost!_

"Don't worry about us, Hermione," Dean said consolingly. "We still have our moments of happiness and laughter."

"Much more now since you've come around," Neville said shyly, shifting uncomfortably in his pot. Hermione reached out to place a finger on the brim of his pot.

"Thank you, Neville," she said, and then turned to Dean. "That means a lot to me."

"It means a lot to us too, Hermione," Dean continued. "Ever since this all happened to us, we... well, we just haven't had as much reason for hope... But now that you're here, all of that has changed." Dean smiled broadly. "Someone has found us! Someone who might be able to help us find the answer to winning back our lives. You've already told us that you want to help us, right?"

"Of course," Hermione nodded, determination alight in her eyes.

"We know that we have a better chance of breaking the spell just by you being here," Dean explained, pouring out his appreciation through his words. "Everyone's hearts feel so much lighter around you," Dean said. "Especially the Master's."

_Oh,__Dean_, Blaise thought, smiling mischievously. _You __sly __fox,__ you._

"The Master's?" Hermione's eyebrows rose, and it was clear that she thought she had misheard him. "Surely I didn't hear you tell me that his mighty highness appreciates my presence."

"But of course, Hermione," Blaise added graciously, having now caught on. "Of course it would be much more difficult for you to notice, as you have not yet grown to know him as we have, but I assure you that the changes have been obvious."

"Obvious," she echoed dryly.

"Perhaps you'll begin to see what Blaise means," Dean added. "You know, should you run into him again sometime… soon."

"Oh-ho no," Hermione sipped her tea with a light laugh. "I sincerely hope we won't see each other again that soon. We only just got past the 'Prepare to die by my hand, muddy peasant!' phase, and I'd rather not disturb the fire any more than I already have."

"You don't say," Dean muttered impassively.

"What I do wish I could see, however, is this castle back to its former glory." She set her teacup down on her saucer with care and smiled at the brittle rays of sunlight streaming through the windowpanes. It had stopped raining, and the sunlight, though bleak, was making its way through. She laughed suddenly, brightly, as if coming out of a daydream. "I can only imagine!"

"Maybe," Neville said, but it was much too softly for her to hear. His eyes were transfixed on her profile with an indescribable measure of hope. "Maybe one day you _will_ see it."

Blaise looked to the pot beside him and felt a forgotten part of him—a part he thought he had buried deep, so far down that it might not even exist any longer—harden and constrict. As he watched all of the castle's hopes and dreams play out over Neville Longbottom's features, Blaise vaguely suspected that the tightened pit inside him might actually be what was once his heart.

"Hey, Longbottom," the candlestick began tentatively. But what could he say? _Chin__ up? __It__ will__ all __turn__ out__ all __right?__ Please,__ the__ man__ hasn__'__t__ even__ got__ a__ chin._

"Good afternoon, Miss Granger! And _gentlemen_. I suspected I might find you here."

"Madam McGonagall!" Hermione exclaimed cheerfully. "What a pleasure!"

"It's all mine, my dear," the hat replied excitably. "I have great news!"

The smile died on Hermione's face. "Please don't tell me."

"Hermione, what's wrong?" Dean asked with concern.

"That's exactly what Madam McGonagall used to preface the Master's first invitation! The one she told me about on the day of the dining disaster!"

"Dining disaster?" Blaise tested the words on his tongue. "It has a nice ring to it. Perhaps we should capitalize the phrase, and make it an official title? Just like your Eve of Arrival, Dining Disaster would fit nicely into our repository of—"

"Blaise! This is serious!"

"As is alliteration!"

"Miss Granger, please, give this a chance," McGonagall entreated. "I don't know what happened between the two of you recently, but I have a very strong feeling that things are going to be very different from now on. All the Master requests is a simple stroll about courtyard… and the weather has even decided to cooperate!"

"But it's so soon," Hermione said, raking a hand through her curls as she sorted out this new information in her mind. "I'm not sure I can go through all of that again just yet."

"Please, Miss Granger," McGonagall continued to plead. "It would mean a lot to all of us to see you both on better terms… And I do think you might be surprised by what you'll find."

"With all due respect, Madam McGonagall, I doubt there is much of anything left in this castle that is capable of surprising me more than what I have already experienced."

As Hermione considered her position further, the servants shared a few moments of awkward silence.

"All right," Hermione grumbled, covering her face with her slender fingers. "All right, I'll do it. I suppose I have no choice anyway…"

"That's the spirit, Hermione!" Blaise cheered. "We told you this morning that things seemed to be looking up! Sure you might need an extra layer or so to beat the dampness… but as long as you're nothing like Dean over here, who predicts the weather by feeling how deeply the dampness sets into his wooden grain, you should have no problem beating the drizzle!"

"Blaise, that's _personal_."

"Oh, calm down, you old weather man. Seamus is the same way!"

"Please," Hermione said in defeat, staring into the abyss of her cooling tea. "The weather is the least of my worries at the moment."

"What is it, Hermione?" asked Neville. Hermione looked at him with wide eyes. If Blaise hadn't known Hermione as well as he did, it might have been said that she looked terrified.

"What will we even _talk_ about?"

Blaise opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and—

"Mr. Zabini, don't you dare suggest idle chatter regarding the weather."

* * *

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Stare at me when you think I'm not looking."

She at least had the decency to look abashed, for which Draco merely scoffed. "I—well, I don't—"

"Absolutely no manners," he stated with a derisive huff. "You haven't been able to look away since we left the Grand Staircase."

"Well, can you blame me?" she demanded with exasperation.

Draco nearly paused, certainly not having expected _that_ response from the troublesome girl. He felt his shoulders stiffen and a weight creep into his features as her words settled over him. There could only be one possible meaning, after all: the girl did not fear his presence… she was merely revolted. His fangs ground themselves together through the tightening of his jaw. ___So the self-righteous little girl isn't as immune as she'd claimed? _ He swallowed thickly as he maintained his pace, thinking through all of the appropriate responses he could throw back at her.

He should have known that she'd be no different than he'd expected.

"No, you fool!" she said suddenly, and he was jerked from his reverie. He sent her an agitated side-glance as she continued to hound him for something or other. ___And I thought only Pansy's voice could be that shrill_. "Not for anything like that, for goodness' sake!"

"What are you talking about? Like what?" he glared.

"Like what you're thinking right this very moment!"

"You actually think you have any idea—"

"I only keep an eye out because I'm waiting for you to—"

"What? Eat you?" he scorned, and he realized with a distant sense of perception that he seemed to be laying on the bitterness especially thick all of a sudden. Her revulsion by his appearance had brought up painful memories of what his life could and should have been, and her open admission of such feelings had bothered him more than he'd liked to recognize. Hadn't he prepared himself for such a disgusted reaction in the prophesized girl, after all?

_Apparently__ not__ enough,_ he sneered, unconsciously flexing his claws.

"Claw out your ribcage?" he spat, continuing on. "Use your tendons as dental floss?"

"No, you fool, though I might as well be!" she hissed, looking thoroughly ruffled. "You still snap so suddenly, and I never know what to expect."

"I'm a royal, not a barbarian," he proclaimed with false pride. "I may look like a werewolf, but I am not an animal."

"Even more reason for me to worry!" she contested. "An animal, at least, would show _signals_ of preemptive attack. With you, I never know when you might suddenly turn and bite my head off."

"My point remains."

"Oh, it was just a figure of speech!"

"I'm glad to see that the reality of my form is finally settling into your consciousness, at least," he nearly growled, feeling irrational and rancorous in the face of such inescapable shame.

"You say that as if such a revelation were a gradual process."

"It's not meant to be," he spat.

"And it _wasn__'__t_. You're jumping to conclusions. I suppose I can understand your sensitivity—"

A low growl.

"—toward the matter, but I would have thought you might consider my particular indifference to your… situation a positive development. Why do you insist on trying to _make_ me fear you if all you're going to do is be annoyed by my caution? You're not writhing in pain from my piercing shrieks of terror, are you?"

___You've obviously never experienced the pain that is listening to your speaking voice_. The thought helped to soothe his battered ego. A little.

"Is that meant to be reassuring?" Draco pinned her with an incredulous glare, twisting her words from the day before. "Feeding the conversation with scenarios of how this experience could be worsened will not improve the situation at hand."

"It might if you'd just try not to bite the hand that feeds you… so to speak."

"What is it with you and biting?" he asked with aggravation. His vexation over the perplexing girl was outweighing his enduring shame and humiliation over his wretched excuse of a body.

"Well, technically, I was only referring to biting in a figurative sense just now, whereas—"

"Enough," Draco cut her off as he raised a claw to his temple; a headache was already beginning to form. "I don't care to hear any literary analysis of your own speech. And you might remember just _who_ is doing the real feeding around here," he said with a pointed look.

"Well, it's very thoughtful of you to include Sir Snape in the conversation, your highness," Hermione tapped her chin thoughtfully with a small smirk.

He blinked twice, unsure if he had heard properly. Did she… was that an attempt at humor? One glance toward her profile and a glimpse of a satisfactory smirk told him all that he needed to know. _God, __it__'__s__ dreadful._He vaguely wondered if such an unfortunate trait was inherently hers, or if she had picked it up somewhere along the lines from one of his incompetent servants. And then it hit him that he might have to put up with it for the rest of his life.

_Have__ mercy_.

Draco rolled the pads of his fingers into the dips of his temples, releasing a scoff, but decided that he needed to let it go for now… for sanity's sake. "Peasant," he muttered under his breath, but the word didn't have quite the satisfying edge he remembered it having a few weeks ago… especially with the knowledge that a dimple was still set firmly in her cheek.

They walked in silence for some minutes then, trailing along the sodden bricks and swirling mists of the courtyard. As another wisp of breath dissipated in front of him, Draco remembered how fervently he had initially regretted his attempt at interacting with the girl just yesterday. Although he was not feeling quite as lost and befuddled as he had the day before, the Prince still had no idea what to say. The girl seemed content not to break the silence, and instead seemed fixated on waiting for him to make the next remark… evidenced clearly by the way she continued to peer at him with suspicious eyes.

"You're doing it again," he ground out impatiently. "Has no one taught you the impoliteness of staring?"

Hermione raised a challenging brow. "Have you given me any reason to trust your impulses?"

"Was your precious deal not corroboratory enough?"

"I don't recall there being anything about surprise maiming or impromptu dungeon visits within our agreement," she commented snidely.

"The potential dungeon visitations are non-negotiable," he remarked with a toothy sneer of a smirk. "But the infliction of bodily harm is doable, I suppose."

"Is that supposed to be funny?"

"Do you find such things laughable? I wouldn't be surprised, now that I've recently experienced your atrocious sense of humor."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice grated over his sensitive ears. "Are you implying that I—as if you—_you_—even _have_ any sense of—"

"A proposal, Granger," he announced, coming to a halt. "An amendment to your precious arrangement: I will to not ever physically harm you, so long as you guarantee that you will stop this foolish suspicion of yours."

"It's our deal," she corrected. "We both agreed to it, so it's not just _my __—_"

"Regardless," Draco interrupted with an exasperated sigh. "A promise of no harm for less fidgeting."

"I do not fidget!"

"I disagree. You fidget relentlessly, and your nerves have not let up on _my_ nerves."

"Says the one who twitches unendingly… _And_ who doesn't have any sense of humor, especially not one that is more valuable than mine," she muttered in annoyance, and Draco's glare silently willed her to get on with it already. "So… safety and security in exchange for being less jumpy around you?" Draco paused. Safety? Security?

That wasn't exactly what he had offered.

She noticed his hesitation. "Well, don't look at me like that! You're the one who suggested it! No wonder it takes so long for new laws to pass. Do all royals take this long to make up their minds?"

"Do all commoners lack patience and diplomacy?"

"Says the one whose primary solution to any problem is an ordained journey to the dungeons," she remarked boldly. "And might I remind you who initiated our negotiations in the first place?"

Draco eyes rolled… and then widened. With mild surprise, he noticed that he had fallen back on this old stalling tactic, a once familiar maneuver that he had often used whenever avoiding an annoying confrontation with Pansy. The girl before him, it seemed, had a point. And as clearly indicated by the trace of a smile pulling at the corners of her eyes, she was aware.

_Bloody__ know-it-all_.

"Indeed. And just look at how many factors you've missed," Draco said as he lifted his chin and resumed their stroll. "With so many points left out of consideration, we'll no doubt be making amendments to this deal for ages. _This_ is why the common populace should never be allowed to handle legislation."

"Oh, for crying—"

And then he turned slightly, which allowed her just the briefest glimpse of his smirk. She wavered.

"Was that… were you… joking?" she asked, voice strained with surprise.

"Royals do not _joke_, Granger," he said… perhaps just a trifle too quickly.

She released a strangled sound of exasperation, and Draco could hardly contain his petty triumph. Until, of course:

"But you _were_!" she exclaimed. "Ha! And you dare conclude that _my_ sense of humor is inferior!"

"Among other things," he grumbled, feeling like his small victory had been stolen from him all too quickly. She wasn't even listening, anyway.

"And the best part is that by making such a sarcastic comment, you've essentially admitted that I was right!"

_Bloody. _

_Stupid._

_Know-it-all._

* * *

Hermione wasn't even sure how it happened.

Somewhere amidst the awkwardness of concocting countless amendments and grasping at other safe conversation topics—"So… interesting weather we're having, no?"—Hermione had begun to feel more relaxed. In a sort of paradoxical way, there was something familiar in the predictability and solidity of their unpredictable banter, and she found herself getting so caught up in the meaningless, insignificant chatter that she was able to take thrill in the heated twists and turns of their conversations... or arguments. _What an interesting concept... that I can feel so at ease, and yet still feel like I want nothing more than to punch him in the throat._

Not to mention, she was a little alarmed at the violence he tended to bring out in her.

Over the course of their stroll, she had lost track of not only the time, but also the threads of dialogue that had led them to this dilapidated fountain in the courtyard and this very bizarre discussion.

"Believe me, you seem more like a snake than a wolf."

"You mean that as an insult," Draco remarked with an amused sneer.

"You mean to tell me that it isn't?" Hermione wondered with a dubious brow.

Draco merely steadied his shoulders, and ambiguously replied, "No one among my lineage would have ever considered that an insult."

"Your entirely family prided themselves on being… snakes?" Hermione asked with incredulity and distaste. She was trying her best to keep her judgments out of her tone… but not with much success.

"And what other animal would you consider worthy?" he asked snidely, as his chin lifted.

"_You_ pride yourself on being serpent-like?" Hermione scorned, and then rolled her eyes. "Most interestingly, I find I am not all that surprised."

"Oh?"

"Indeed," Hermione jabbed. "Is it not the animal of deceit, after all?"

She had meant it as another semi-harmless taunt, but grew uneasy when a few moments of awkward silence soon passed. When she glanced at him from the side, she was thrown by the sudden rigidity to the lines of his body and the narrowed slits of his eyes. _Back__up,__ Hermione, __you__'__ve __gone__ too__ far_. Somehow, her words had touched a nerve. But as she warily eyed the intensity of his stance, she had to wonder: was this a matter of battered pride or of something… else?

"But," Hermione said suddenly, coughing slightly as her vocal chords struggled to catch up to her mind. She needed to turn this conversation around, and she needed to do it before she dug herself into an even deeper hole. "As I simply cannot have you approve of any moniker by my creation, I'll have to come up with something else. Thus," she inhaled for breath, speaking very quickly. "If I were to imagine you as any other kind of creature, I would honestly have to say you strike me as more of…"

She said the first thing that came to mind.

"A ferret."

And immediately wanted to take it back.

"A ferret?" Draco blinked, as his dark thoughts of the past and sudden wells of indignity were momentarily suspended by surprise. "Are you blind?"

Hermione yanked the fabric of her hood with an embarrassed huff, fighting the blush on her cheeks by channeling her agitation into expressing indignity of her own. "Obviously not!"

"Do I _look_ like a ferret to you?" Draco pressed, and Hermione swore he was eyeing her like _she_ was a ferret. "You could have just left it at wolf, or dog, or possibly even bearcat, and I might have given you some leniency, yet you come up with _ferret_?"

"I think it suits you," she stated boldly, lying through her teeth. "You slink around your oversized castle, just waiting to snatch up whatever you can find. 'What's this? Granger's having a semi-decent time enjoying the library? Might as well drag her through the muggy courtyard for the evening until I can snuff out her contentment, and sufficiently comment about the ungodly measure of mud about her hem'."

"What was that? Was that supposed to be an impression of me?" Draco said with a jeer that only made Hermione's blush deepen. She was only making a fool out of herself, she just knew it.

"I'm sorry I don't have the fangs and the snooty accent, but I thought I managed your irrational pompousness rather well."

"Are you done?"

"Not yet," she said, only just to pester him a little more. She was sure she could only belittle his character so much before he remembered his pride and place, and shut her down, so she vowed to take full advantage of the opportunity. "And this is exactly what I was talking about before: ferrets will lure you in with false pretenses of intending no harm, even going so far as _acting_ harmless, just like a certain someone I know who promises harmlessness, and then they'll go all mercurial on you and bite you in your sleep."

"There you are with the biting _again_. And did you just say something about being harmless? Did we not just discuss the fangs, Granger? The claws? I believe I've explicitly told you repeatedly that simply because you might not have to worry any longer about me striking you down, I am not by any means _harmless_." He eyed her impatiently, but she merely waved a lazy hand in his direction for him to go on. "Besides, _Granger_," he added smoothly, and Hermione's skin rose on end from the new layer of silkiness that coated the hoarseness of his voice. "Biting someone in their sleep is indeed cunning, but overrated. I wouldn't sink to such an abused tactical skill."

"Then you'd attack from straight on, is that it?" she asked, absentmindedly running her hands over her arms.

"Silly peasant," Draco smirked. "Never."

She eyed him warily. "You send worse mixed messages than a deranged Midas. I hope you know that."

"Granger, for someone who thinks so highly of themselves for being right all of the bloody time, you've never been so far off the mark; _no_ creature sends worse mixed messages than Midas."

And as she suddenly broke into airy laughter, she missed how he struggled to tamper down the rising quirk to his lips.

* * *

Sometime later that evening after supper, Hermione made her lonely way through the darkening corridors to the library. As she absently trailed her fingertips along the stone bricks, replaying the course of the day's events in her mind, she eventually came across a window with brightly colored glass that gave her pause.

___What beautiful artistry_, she thought, feeling the textures of the stained glass mosaic. ___Even with so little light, the colors still shine so brightly_. Peering at the outside world through a clear pentagon piece no larger than the size of her palm, she gazed longingly at the hazy clouds. The rain would no doubt begin anew within the hour.

___The clouds are so thick that even the moon isn't visible_, she observed. ___I'd have liked to use the lunar cycle to help track the days, but it seems I'll have to wait until the storms pass on__._

"Well," Hermione said gently, speaking to the moon. "It seems that you'll have a safe hiding place for some time now, if these clouds are any indication."

Hermione stiffened suddenly, releasing an embarrassed scoff. ___I've obviously been spending far too much time with Luna_… _No doubt she spends her time talking to things like the moon or wrackspurts or whatever it is that she goes on about these days._

Not that she was any better, Hermione realized… what with her habit of talking to a highly cognitive owl and magical, not-so-inanimate objects day in and day out. Not to mention a debatably tolerable werewolf. What was the difference, really, between all of that and talking to the moon?

"I'm going mad," Hermione said, her voice fringed with dull acceptance. "I must be."

"You wouldn't be the first," a voice drawled.

Hermione's head snapped to the carpet below her. "Sir Snape!" Feeling embarrassed for having been caught in a rather silly, private moment, she nearly forgot to curtsy. "You surprised me! Good evening, Sir."

"Evening, Granger. I see you've taken a liking to the window of Hufflepuff."

"Huffle-what?"

"Please don't make me say it again," he droned. "It is one of my least favorite houses."

"I beg your pardon?"

Snape brought himself closer to where she stood, hand still against the clear glass. "What you've found is the window dedicated to the house of Hufflepuff. Take a step back and tell me what you see."

Intrigued, Hermione did as he said. _How __could __I__ have __not__ seen__ it __before?_ "It's the badger from the entrance doors… and on Lee's crest!"

"Indeed," he concurred, but seemed to have already lost interest.

"But what is it for? What is the meaning of 'Hufflepuff'? What are the other houses' names? Lee said that there were four of them! Are there other windows representing each of the animals in other parts of the castle? There must be!"

"Your questions would be best answered by Miss Lovegood, Miss Granger," he said rather impatiently, and Hermione bit her lip to keep quiet. _He__ probably __knows __everything __about __them_, she thought with a tinge of annoyance. _Bet__ he __just__ doesn__'__t__ want __to __bother._

"Of course, Sir," she agreed, holding onto the belted sash at her waist as if she were holding onto the questions themselves, and reeling in her rapidly swirling thoughts. "Thank you for the suggestion."

He eyed her carefully then, inspecting her with such probing, blank eyes that she couldn't help but feel uncomfortable. "I've interrupted your journey to the library… my apologies."

"Oh," Hermione laughed somewhat nervously. "Not at all, Sir. I didn't mean to become so distracted. I just got… lost in my thoughts, I suppose."

"You have much to think about, I'm sure."

Hermione glanced at the cauldron, pondering the meaning behind his words. "I'm afraid it's too much to think about, more often than not."

Sir Snape regarded her seriously. "And might there be anything I could do to be of assistance, Miss Granger?"

Again, he took her by surprise. "Oh! Please, do not concern yourself with my trivial matters, Sir. I promise that it's nothing I can't… handle."

"Indeed," he remarked with a knowing glint that Hermione didn't understand. "And might I take this opportunity to commend you. You have shown greater ability than most in… _handling_ things, as it were."

"Sir?"

"You'd be surprised at how well the castle has considered your dealings with the Master to be, Miss Granger."

Something heavy and hard sank into her stomach. She was going to have to listen to another conversation about the Master? Wasn't she on her way to the library to escape from these dreaded interrogations, to the one place where a certain someone could always be relied upon to prefer more enticing topics, albeit it _snorkacks_ or _kacksnorks_?

"Thank you, Sir," she said quietly, at a loss for anything else to say. She wanted to leave, but didn't know how to disengage herself from the conversation without being rude. Sir Snape, ever perceptive, seemed to notice her discomfort, but apparently wasn't done with her just yet.

"I understand that you've expressed interest in alleviating our rather dire situation, Miss Granger."

"I have," she said quickly, her eyes taking on a new light. "I mean I am… still."

"And may I assume that you have already begun to consider a plan?"

"Plan?" she nearly squeaked.

___He couldn't be hinting at the supplies I've been trying to accumulate for my escape, could he?_ She swallowed thickly. ___No, quit being so paranoid, Hermione! You've kept it all safe from prying eyes and such thoughts will only get you caught more quickly!_

"Allow me to rephrase," he said. "May I assume that you have already begun to consider your role in unearthing such a resolution… for our magical imprisonment?"

"Ah," Hermione voiced, feeling slightly more at ease and flustered all at once. He couldn't have known about her newest schemes to flee, but the sharpness of his canny, black eyes assured her that he was somehow in on another of her secrets. ___Too bad I don't even know to which secret he seems to have been enlightened. Unless…_ Hermione hesitated. ___Does he know about my meeting at the library tonight with Midas? That owl had better not have betrayed my confidence!_

"Miss Granger?"

"I have looked into exploring my resources on the matter, yes," she said, settling for what she hoped was a safe answer.

"Grand," the cauldron said with an ironic dose of apathy. "You must alert Madam McGonagall or myself to any support you may need… including Midas."

Hermione glanced to the cauldron with heedful eyes, only to see an intentional smirk etched into the pewter. _Damn __that__ owl!_

"Sir, forgive me," she said suddenly. "I didn't mean for him to go against any orders by asking for his help, and I apologize for not asking permission. I only did what I thought was best."

"Your apologies are unnecessary. Though might I suggest not ever entrusting sensitive matters to an owl… As animals of wisdom and sight, they are often unreliable secret-keepers."

"Um… right. Thank you, Sir."

_Bloody owl! He should have warned me of all this before!_

"I would also strongly advise you to keep all of this from the Master."

"Naturally," she huffed with annoyance. "Even while trying to help his kingdom, I'm at risk of receiving his retribution. My only hope concerning the Master is that if he were to ever find out, he'd realize that I'm not doing any of this for _him_."

Snape peered at her curiously. "Such harsh words for a maiden who supposedly didn't mind his company this afternoon while taking a turn about the courtyard."

"Goodness, does _everyone _in the castle know about our walks?" She paused. "You haven't been talking to the sconces as well, have you?"

His glare was answer enough.

"Forgive me, Sir. I suppose the castle's residents have been rubbing off on me."

"One in particular comes to mind," he said disdainfully. "But nevertheless, it is interesting to hear such a comment from you. Do you still object to his company after all?"

"I… well," Hermione began uncertainly. She should have known that another interrogation was inevitable. "I don't think his company is the matter of objection, per se. It is more closely related to his character."

"Oh? How so?"

"Truly, Sir, I find that I am growing immune to his presence. I only find myself growing irritated when he… well, when he speaks."

Snape looked as if he were trying to bite back a smirk. "Your words imply that you have yet to find any admirable qualities in our Master."

_Yet_. Hermione noticed the gleam in his eye as the word escaped his lips. She shifted slightly, remembering that she was supposed to meet Midas soon. "Yes, well, it is rather difficult to be motivated to help him, along with his people, when I so rarely see any redeeming qualities."

"You think they do not exist?"

"I didn't say that there weren't any," she countered. "I said that I so _rarely_ see them. But I suppose such could be said about all royalty."

The intensity of his gaze made her next words die in her throat. "What interesting perspectives you come to us with, Miss Granger. I must admit I had expected better from you."

Hermione faltered so strongly that she nearly stumbled, completely unprepared for and taken aback by his suddenly caustic demeanor. "Sir?"

"It is very easy for one never born into this lifestyle to look upward and assume that such individuals are all in the same vein," Snape remarked coolly.

_And __it __always, __always__ comes__ down__ to__ blood,__ doesn__'__t__ it?_ she thought scathingly, feeling her own start to boil. "I suppose, Sir, that you would like to inform me otherwise? What, may I ask, did I do to deserve such hostile treatment? Besides speak the truth?"

"I did not invite you to comment, Miss Granger," he said evenly, and Hermione's eyes shifted downward. She bit her tongue to hold it in place, feeling herself begin to simmer. He regarded her for a full minute then, and Hermione was growing so agitated under the force of his gaze that she actually found herself tightening her fingers around the fabric of her dress.

"And I suppose," he said at last, when Hermione had grown almost certain that he wasn't going to speak again. "That it is even easier to blame _them_ for that which is not easily understood."

Hermione's fingers stilled. "Sir?"

"What do you know of the aristocracy of these lands, Miss Granger?"

"Not much at all, I suppose," she admitted.

"Do you know the average age for marriage among diplomats?" he pressed. "Or the number of healthy, potential heirs a society expects a patriarch to produce?"

"Not particularly," she said quietly, uncertain of his direction.

"Perhaps you are familiar with the complex, political nature of inter-kingdom relations?"

"No," she said simply, and felt herself suddenly begin to shrink under his penetrating stare.

"Could you empathize with the act of putting an entire population before oneself? The obligation of duty to not only one's family, but to a thousand or so more?"

"No, Sir."

"Then, Miss Granger, please share something you _do_ know."

Her neck snapped upward, eyes narrowing into furious slits as indignation once again swelled within her. "I beg your pardon?"

Snape only stared on expectantly, his eyes cool and calculating. Hermione felt her blood boil over and burst into her limbs, and up and out seeped her ire through her pores.

"I know what it feels like to be on the downside of corruption," she retorted, her angry words stretching out over a taut line of restraint. "I know what it's like to watch others gracelessly take life's gifts for granted while I've been forced to make do with the loss of my own. I've watched greedy, undeserving others take advantage of those who struggle with what little they have. I have been left to my own devices while countless others on the outside of some invisible, inexplicable barrier carry on without an inkling of the struggle going on within. I have known suffering."

"Oh?" Snape murmured after a pause, and Hermione focused on breathing deeply, embarrassed by her tense outburst. She was riled, but that was no excuse for her to forget herself. Hadn't she already learned her lesson with the rats below? _Apparently __not_. She gently sunk her teeth into her bottom lip to prevent any further interruptions. "And do you think you're the only one who experiences this?"

"Don't be silly, Sir," she shook her head, feeling slightly defeated, nearly out of breath, and more abashed than ever. "I know that there are those who are far worse off than I… I merely mean to say that I am much more familiar with the concept of looking up… rather than looking down."

Snape pondered this. When he spoke next, it was with a _hint_ more patience. "Tell me, Miss Granger… Do you know the feeling of being expected to fulfill a certain role in life? To follow a certain path that, should you choose not to follow, you would only find ostracism and shame? Maybe even financial ruin?"

She immediately thought of Ron. "I am a woman," she said with an air of finality. "I am educated, often times thought too much so, and without a suitable dowry… of course I do."

"Then what might you assume society's perspective of you is?"

"Sir, what is this all about?"

"With so many significant marks against you, one might inaccurately presume many things about your character. I must say, this is quite like what our Master experiences, himself."

"The marks I have endured against _my_ character have occurred as a consequence of my sacrifices for my family and for our survival," she said, barely containing her rudeness. _In __all__ meanings __of__ the__ words._ "Nothing I have ever done has been at the expense of others."

_Not like what _he's_ surely done over the course of his privileged existence. Questionable quality of company aside, and tragic past or not, the prejudices he holds against what I am and what I hold dear can't be forgotten so easily._

But Snape only gave a piercing chuckle. "Can you be so sure, Miss Granger?"

Hermione took a breath and prepared to leave. "_What_ is this all about?"

"You have some very deeply rooted misconceptions regarding our way of life here, and most notably the Master's, in particular."

"But the way he treats others—"

"Is no differently than the generations upon generations before him had."

"Sir, forgive me, but are you actually justifying his actions?"

"Absolutely not. I have said before that there was little honor in how he had handled your escape, but mark my words, there is equally little honor in drawing a conclusion without first knowing the antecedents."

"I promise that it's not all that difficult to surmise, Sir. A Prince is selfish because he has been raised into opulence. A Prince is blunt and rude and insulting because he has had few to disarm him. A Prince is arrogant and unfair and cruel because no one has told him otherwise. But for what purpose could his arrogance serve? What use could a King have for a staff that loathes him?"

"You think we loathe him, Miss Granger?" he asked suddenly, and his voice had grown very quiet. It made Hermione pause… uneasy.

"Most certainly fear him," she amended.

"Fear and hatred are not one in the same."

"It's a fine line," she persisted.

"Perhaps for the ignorant," he smiled a wry smile, but Hermione could tell that he wasn't used to such an act; it came out more closely related to a sneer. "Which we both know includes neither you nor I."

She paused, frowning. "So what _do _the servants think then?"

Was she really having this conversation with him? Hadn't she just been on the way to library, to _escape_ undesirable discussions relating to the owner of the castle? Hadn't she just shouted at the chef with all of the pent-up frustration and helplessness that she no longer felt comfortable expressing in front of the Prince? And now she was asking him about the one topic she thought she most wanted to avoid, when before this evening she hadn't even heard the cauldron utter more than a few cold, dreary words to her since she setting foot in the castle.

"I apologize for asking, Sir Snape," Hermione said with a slight bow of her head. "It's none of my business, and I really should know better than—"

"They fear _for _him," he said solemnly.

Hermione paused, her head caught still in its upward journey, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

"If you would like to improve your time spent among us, Miss Granger, you should attempt to keep the level of self-righteousness at bay."

Regaining a hold of herself, Hermione scowled. "If that's the advice _I_ receive, Sir, then I would love to hear what you tell _him_."

She swore she could see an amused gleam flicker through those ineffable eyes, but she knew that it could merely have been a trick of the shadows. The next thing she knew, Snape was already making his way a little farther down the corridor.

"You may imagine such a conversation at your leisure, should you wish," he said, and she definitely wasn't imagining the amusement now. "Perhaps a dialogue surrounding the conventions of table etiquette and honor."

"But Sir, even you said that he was lacking honor," she rushed out, before she could stop herself.

"What he has lacked is opportunity," he said seriously.

"You would argue that he has never once had an opportunity to show kindness or respect to those unlike him? In all of his years, however many that may be?"

"Seventeen."

"Seventeen opportunities?"

"Seventeen years," Sir Snape repeated with a strange look in his eyes. "The Master has just recently turned seventeen years of age."

It took a moment for Hermione to process this. This Master of theirs—this Prince—was just slightly older than she?

She shook her head quickly. She would digest that later. "You can't tell me that in the near two decades he's been alive, he's never been encountered with a situation in which he could have proven himself a better… man, than the rest of the society around him." As her mind searched for another image of the Master to replace the sight of the beast, and only came up blank, she felt her tongue trip over itself. "Everyone has had a choice in creating the person they've become, one way or another."

"Have they?" Snape asked after a pause, with that enduring gleam in his eyes that she didn't understand. "And are you so sure that choice and opportunity are one in the same?"

"By definition—"

"Ah… by definition," Snape echoed, shearing through her words like a razor to velvet. Hermione stamped down the anger that was steadily rising back to the surface. "Just because he has never been pushed to rise to a challenge doesn't mean that he can't."

He paused then, fixing Hermione with a look that sent her mind reeling with questions. Just who _was_ this chef? What was it about him that allowed him to exert such influence over the master of the castle? How was it possible for a creature so small to make Hermione feel like she was eleven-years-old again, and all with just one mocking glare?

She was ripped from her thoughts as Sir Snape finally turned to depart. He glanced back at her, almost like an afterthought, and although she heard his next words clearly, she couldn't fully understand them.

"You may hold his preconceived notions against him, Miss Granger, and perhaps rightfully so… but who will hold you accountable for yours?"

"Mine?"

"After all," he said, and she could hear his smirk, even from so many paces away. "Is it really fair to judge an individual left to their own devices, trapped within some inexplicable force, all while the outsiders carry on without an inkling of the struggle occurring within?"

Hermione's mouth opened, but her tongue was caught. It was only after she had heard Snape clambering down the hall for nearly half a minute that she was able to respond. "But that's entirely different!"

"Think on it, Miss Granger," he called, just before turning a corner and moving out of sight. "If you're as smart as the servants claim you to be, it shouldn't take you long."

* * *

"Midas!" Hermione whispered harshly into the dark as she stumbled through the door. "Midas, you had better hasten your furry feathers down to this spot right this instant!"

Sure enough, the owl swooped in the highest window and landed gracefully on his perch among the stacks of books in what Luna liked to call the Restricted Section. Never had she been able to read him so easily: shame and apprehension.

"You had _better_ worry," Hermione scolded as she fished about for the oil lamp. "You have some serious explaining to do. But not now. Have you brought what I asked for?"

In a mad dash no doubt meant to redeem himself, Midas had collected a piece of fine parchment, an envelope, along with a quill and ink from various hiding places about the room before Hermione had even finished with the room's illumination.

"Excellent. Did you remember the wax for the seal?"

Hermione heard herself ask these questions, but she was only half-processing what was happening around her. Her mind was still reeling from the words Snape had thrown at her, and her hands were shaking slightly from the adrenaline still pumping through her system. If Midas noticed, he didn't let on.

"Thank you," she said quietly, taking the simple emblem from his beak. This was already going to be suspicious enough as it was, and the replacement of her modest family seal for this conspicuously unfamiliar one might bring about even more questions… but it was a risk she was going to have to take. She couldn't afford to have this letter be lost.

As she settled into the seat of the desk in the back corner of the dusty, neglected area, a million thoughts circulated themselves around her hazy understanding of her surroundings. She quickly dipped her quill into the ink, loading the tapered point with unsteady fingers, and willed herself to focus. She would think about everything that had happened that day _later_… including Snape's resounding critique, McGonagall's enduring plea, Blaise's blithe chatter_,_ Dean's everlasting patience, and… his highness' smirk.

_Enough! Later, Hermione. Digest all of this later!_

There was something much more important that needed to be taken care of first.

Only fairly confident that the owl couldn't read her flowing script as he hovered about her shoulder, she pushed all of other voices echoing in her mind aside, and began.

.

.

.

_Dear Professor Lupin,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Please forgive me if this seems a bit unexpected, and I pray I do not make myself an inconvenience to you with this note, as I have truly meant to renew our correspondence since its abatement this past year. If my letter has arrived with unfortunate timing, I beg you to not think for a moment that I would hold it against you to reserve this letter until more pressing matters have passed._

_Though truth be told, my latest query is very specific, and it is much different than what we have discussed in the past. I do think you'll especially relish this topic, however, as it pertains to your area of expertise… _

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**End ****Notes:**Three things you need to do right this moment:

1. Review! :D

2. If you began reading this story before 9/16/11, you need to check out the revamped _**Prologue**_ and see what you think of it!

3. Go ogle the beautiful fanart **Kite1011** did for _Monstrosity_ through the link on my profile, or the following: **http:****[slash]****[slash]****tae-****[dot]****deviantart****[dot]****com****[slash]****art****[slash]****HP-Monstrosity-255410669  
**

Thank you, again, to all of my loyal reviewers! I promise that I will be responding to all of your latest responses soon enough. :) Thank you for your patience!


	18. Moonshine & Echoes

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes: **_11/21/11_. Oh my gosh, this TOOK FOREVER. I'm so sorry. I thought I had the chapter down pat, and then life took over... I won't be making any more promises about wait times for chapter updates (even if I think I'm really, really sure!), but if you want to stay updated on how each chapter is coming along, or be privy to previews of upcoming segments, head to my LiveJournal. :) Link is my "Homepage" on my profile.

Also, in light of the holiday season, I will be giving out **unlimited gift!drabbles and gift!ficlets**. Just check the most recent public post on my LJ. Any fandom, (almost) any pairing. You don't need to be a member of LJ to request! I'll post via comment, and if I'm particularly excited about the prompt, I may post it to one of my various drabble collections here on .

Also, also: we broke 100 reviews! :D Thanks everybody!

ALSO, ALSO, ALSO, IRENE IS BACK. Again, I have to say how amazed I am at how many fabulous opportunities the revival of this fic has brought me—rekindled friendships, new friendships, a creative outlet, gorgeous gift!fanart (thanks, **Kite1011**!), all of it! My old beta, Irene, and I got back in touch, and she'll be helping me to salvage what I can of the original chapters and improve the chapters that have yet to come. :)

* * *

**Moonshine & Echoes**

* * *

_Have you ever stared into the rain?  
Thought the clouds would never disappear?  
Have you ever screamed out into the dark  
Thinking no one else could hear?_

– "Believe Again," **Delta Goodrem**

* * *

"Raving lunatic," Ron muttered under his breath as he ducked under the hanging sign on his way out of the shop, while the frantic clamoring from the owner in the back of the store carried out into the open wind and mingled with the shouts of others hawking their wares at the town market. As the door swung closed, Ron half-turned to shout behind him, "And what kind of a name is Mrs. Norris for a cat, anyway?"

_Stupid Filch_, he thought darkly. _I just came to pick up an order! Bet he doesn't trust anyone under the age of fifty._

Making his way through the throngs of people along the street, Ron imagined what he would say to his father when he announced that Filch denied him on the count of _young, grubby, careless fingers_. As if he would break anything! Sure he was clumsy, but… Fists clenching in frustration, Ron gloomily peered up into the massive shroud of billowing rain clouds and wondered if he would have the luck to make it home before the brief relapse in rain came to an end; if any of the recent events in his life were to be considered, he suspected he wouldn't.

"What bollocks," he grumbled, forcefully jamming his hands into his pockets. The wind nipped at the slices of skin still exposed, but he paid it no mind.

_How am I supposed to keeping doing this? _

His shoulder accidentally collided with another as he rounded the corner, but he couldn't bring himself to apologize. The indignant man had only just begun to chastise Ron's rudeness when the woman on the stranger's arm calmed her irritated beau with a quelling, sympathetic look and whispered words of, "Just think of what their family is going through."

_How am I supposed to keep brooding and playing the grieving friend and _keeping quiet_ when all I want to do is run into the woods and not stop until she's in my arms? _

More murmurs from the crowds, coupled with never-ending stares… The village's talkative crowd was oddly reserved as he passed, settling for whispers and barely-concealed pointed fingers, and there was no question in Ron's eyes as he mindlessly trailed through them on his way home.

"I hear they were to be married," came a distant voice.

"What a poor, unfortunate soul. I hope he finds the strength to move on quickly."

_How the hell am I supposed to pretend that I'm acting just like everyone else and that things are not okay—when they're not—but not in the way that everyone _believes_ they're not? _

_How am I supposed to pretend… when I know she's only a few miles away?_

As he walked along, scuffing the worn soles of his shoes along the cobblestone while he made his way back to the Burrow, a well-known voice carried out over the breeze through the swinging door of a heated shop, and Ron stopped in his tracks.

"Careful wit' what yeh holdin' now, yeh hear? That's a special load fer Professor Lupin, and yeh'll be real sorry if summat happens to it."

Ron watched as the postal services men exchanged a few words with the giant man behind the counter, and he stayed clear of the way when they came out through the wooden door, arms lined with boxes. He observed them curiously for a moment longer as they made their way back out into the main street and then let himself in.

"Hiya, Ron," Hagrid announced amiably, though he sounded tired. "Well, innit this a surprise?"

The redhead nodded noncommittally and offered a shrug, not knowing what else to say. Hagrid seemed to catch on to the tension rather easily, but seemed to be more at a loss of what to do to help ease it. "Say, can I get'cher some tea? What'cha lookin' fer?"

"No thanks, Hagrid," Ron waved a hand absentmindedly, wondering when he had started getting feeling back into his chilled fingers. "I don't know why I came in really. To say hullo, or something, maybe. I guess I just wanted…"

He didn't actually know.

"Tha'ss all right, Ron. Never need a reason to see ol' Hagrid, eh?"

"Yeah, suppose. So what were the boxes for? There were loads of them."

"Ahh, you know Professor Lupin," Hagrid laughed. "He likes tah be prepared. That was jus' his usual order."

"Usual? But why would he make any purchase from your veterinary clinic? I mean, no offense… But why not buy from one closer in London?"

"Tha'ss cause London don' have what _Hagrid's_ got, yeh know," he said with a proud swelling of his chest. "At leas', they don't have the partnerships I've got in town, anyway… Little Whinging is known for high quality products of every kind. Who wouldn' want to order from here, eh?"

Ron looked at him quizzically, but decided that he didn't care enough to press.

"Yeh know, Ron," Hagrid said gently, noticing his distress. "If yeh ever need anything, well… all yeh got to do is ask. Yeh know that, righ'?"

_I do know. That's why I came in here, isn't it? To distract myself? Then why am I having such a hard time saying anything? _Doing_ anything?_

That, unfortunately, he did know.

"Yeah," Ron shook his head, clearing away the persistent images of chestnut curls and golden eyes. "Yeah, I know, Hagrid. Look, I'll be sure to tell Harry to stop by and visit, all right?"

The towering man hesitated for just a second, looking over his features until Ron was certain that every freckle had been inspected, and then Hagrid's sigh left his massive chest deflated. "Yeah, I'd appreciate tha'. Say hullo to your mum and dad, and be a good lad at home."

"Yeah," Ron echoed, making his way back to the door.

"Ron," Hagrid called out softly as the freckled hand clasped around the handle. "Yeh know… It's all gonna be… In the end, everythin' will be…"

_All right_.

Ron glanced back at the figure, feeling the numbness spread back into his fingers. There was something he wanted to say—so much he wanted to say—but he couldn't… His aching throat wouldn't allow it.

And neither would she.

_Pansy._

So instead, Ron nodded wordlessly, and slipped out into the wind, leaving Hagrid feeling just as cold.

"Damn it," he whispered to the grey skies above. "How can I keep letting them all think this? That she's gone and that she may never come back when I know that she's out there, and that we'll get her back, and that it _will_ be all right?"

Nearing the Burrow, Ron tried to keep his acidic thoughts inside as well as the acidity of his stomach at bay. His mind swirled in a vicious whirlwind of _Hermione, Pansy, Harry, Hermione, Pansy, Harry, Mum and Dad, Hermione, Pansy, Hermione, Hermione—_until he nearly ran into a street lamp. Cursing the girl perpetually in the mirror, Ron turned on his heel away from the blasted metal pole—

—and came face to reflected face with the girl in question.

"Blehh-ack!" came the contorted noise.

"Will you be quiet!" she hissed from the glass of a shop along the main street.

"I told you not to do that anymore!"

"Move," Pansy ordered. Ron grimaced and looked to the left… only to find a wary passerby offering him a suspicious look. By the time he turned his gaze back to the glass of the shop, all he could see was a very confused merchant staring at him from behind the counter on the other side, and the small cloud of condensation from where his breath had fogged up the glass. With a groan and an ounce of humiliation, he quickly made his way around the corner, making sure to lose the attention of the skeptical passerby. _Great_, he thought distastefully as he searched the alley for something he could use. _The whole town already thinks I'm going bonkers because of… because of—and now _this_ isn't helping. _Coming to an awful-smelling, fermenting barrel of ale near the deserted back of a tavern, Ron lifted the lid and peeked inside, covering his nose with a billowing sleeve.

"Will you quit following me!" he spat through the woolen fabric.

"_This _is the best thing you could find? Disgusting," she complained, her face appearing among the swirling contents within.

"Deal with it," he ground out. "What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? The better question is what are you _doing_? How am I supposed to trust you not to screw anything up if this is how you're acting!"

"Does that give you the right to keep stalking me?"

"Don't flatter yourself, Ginger. I'm just not going to let you mess things up."

"Mess things up? I'm doing what you told me to!"

_Though I ask myself "why?" more and more each day, _he groused.

"I told you to lie low!"

"Isn't that what I'm doing?" he growled.

"What you're _doing_ is drawing attention to yourself. Stop acting so oddly and play your part, fool. And your face is all pinched... Though it might be naturally so."

"Since your face is currently rippling in alcohol, I don't really see how you can be a proper judge of what's natural."

"The point," Pansy sneered, though the ripples of her medium tempered the effect. "Is that you need to start keeping your end of the bargain. Don't give yourself away!"

"But what the hell is the point of all of this waiting?" he demanded. "Why can't I just bust in there now and grab her? Why the wait?"

"I told you," she enunciated, almost sounding pained with the effort. "We have to do this my way."

"Your way is taking too long."

"You know, I wonder what Hermione would say about your noncompliance," she cut in, arching a knowing brow. Ron's sneer deepened, and then evaporated. With a huff, he crossed his arms, and shifted to the side, reluctantly relenting. Pansy said with a smirk, "Much better."

"Whatever you say, Princess," he scoffed.

Ron heard the liquid slosh in the barrel, and peered down at the irritated-looking Pansy. He barely had enough time to scrunch his face in confusion before she waspishly reminded him _again _not to screw anything up, and had disappeared. Ron searched the depths of the shadowy, restless liquid in the wooden container for the exasperating woman, but found nothing. With an aggravated growl, he snatched the barrel's lid and slammed it over the turbulent barrel. After a few deep breaths to calm his beating heart and shaking hands, he stepped away from the deepest shadows, and slowly made his way back to the main street.

Slowly and sluggishly, Ron eventually stumbled upon the old front gate to the Burrow. So engrossed in his thoughts was Ron that he nearly rammed himself into the two finely dressed figures emerging from his property.

With a sharp intake of breath, Ron glanced upward, trapping his gaze straight into rigid eyeglasses that did nothing to hide the critical eyes behind them. Feeling an unexpected surge of adrenaline filter through his veins, Ron immediately stood a little straighter despite his advantage in height. The man with the glasses laughed softly, but the noise ground itself under Ron's skin like a million spiders, crawling and dragging their filthy little bodies up and down his spine.

A noise from behind the man's right caused Ron to look beyond the first's shoulder, but the stare that he faced was no less perturbing. A pair of impossibly grey eyes surrounded by matted grey hair bored into him, and before he even knew what he was doing, he had already assumed a more offensive stance. These men may have been wearing finely-tailored clothes and expensive-looking pocket watches, but Ron could easily see the grime and grease in the smaller one's long hair, and the beastliness of the larger one's yellowing, grown-too-long nails. As the larger one began to laugh as well, Ron could only swallow.

"Come, Fenrir. We have other business to attend to," said the smaller of the two. Thinner and more gaunt, Ron observed; a skeleton with beady eyes and covered in finery.

"You know these country folk," said the man—_animal_, Ron's mind supplied_—_named Fenrir. "Always chompin' at the bit."

Ron sharpened his glare as the two passed by, and he felt his fingers—_numb, numb, numb_—dig themselves into the calluses rich upon his palms.

"And who are you?" Ron demanded, turning towards them as they continued on toward the carriage that he only just noticed was waiting for them. "What are you doing on our property?"

The pair turned to him with curiosity, though while the one named Fenrir looked impatient, the unnamed, younger man turned to Ron with a slimy smile. "My, my, young Mr. Weasley… Surely, with the hair, you must be one of them, all right. The rudeness, too... must be a family trait."

"Why you—"

"Interesting, isn't it? Not too many generations ago, this property was part of _our_ inheritance." The smile grew. "What coincidences we encounter in life, eh, Fenrir?"

The beast behind him merely grunted and made a motion as if he wished to enter the cab. "There will be plenty of time to play later, Scabior. Dinner is waiting."

Seething with every possible retort alight on his tongue, Ron opened his mouth just as he suddenly felt a hand firmly grip his shoulder. It was Arthur's. The one named Scabior looked on in amusement, though he seemed disappointed in having lost an opportunity for entertainment. "Our regards, Mr. Weasley. You'd best keep our proposal in mind."

Ron instantly glanced to his father in expectation, and found that Arthur's hand was not only grasped firmly on his person, but was also clasped tightly over the wooden beam of the fence for support. Ron felt his eyes strain as he watched the two enter the carriage without further comment, and felt his knees begin to tremble with the urge to chase as they were taken down the street and out of sight beyond the corner. As soon as they were no longer in view, Arthur's entire body sagged, his limbs falling limp and loose as the strength seemed to drip right out of him. Ron placed a hand at his waist and offered his shoulder for support as he guided him back to the door, from which Molly promptly burst forth but a few moments later.

"Oh, for heaven's sake!" came her wavering voice as she hurried towards them. The rest of the family could be seen beyond the frame, hovering in the tiny vestibule.

"Dad, what's going on?" Ron asked, breathing heavily as he supported his father's weight. "Who in the hell were those people?"

"Oh," Arthur breathed, laughing uneasily. "I'm getting too old for this."

Molly immediately began fussing with his shirt, and her lips thinned into such a grim line that they were nearly invisible. She immediately situated herself under Arthur's shoulder and began leading him into the house as well. "The bloody robbers, the whole lot of them," she spat lowly. "The little roaches just snatch up whatever they can find, those two."

"Who are they?" Ron asked again, helping Arthur as he climbed the first step to the door. The others inside were already arranging a comfortable seat in the drawing room, and he could smell Ginny's special brew of tea wafting out into the night air. Arthur paused in the doorframe to rest, and looked at his family with tired eyes.

Ron thought that his father had never looked so old.

"The search for… the search has been called off," he reminded gently, and his voice wore thin. He swallowed, but did not continue.

"And?" Ron pressed, feeling his brow curve dangerously and his skin tingle with dread.

He supposed he already knew.

"The bank has loaned a considerable sum of money," Arthur said with a hollow voice. "And now they've come to collect."

* * *

Meanwhile, just a little more than a league and yet an entirely different world away, two figures roamed the empty, candle-lit corridors of a castle with easy strides. The Prince had finally relented in shortening his long gait, albeit with a reprimanding comment or two, and had achieved a steady pace that was accommodating enough for the young woman to maintain… mostly. She had been asking a very intriguing question when he had commented on her lack of endurance, and he'd made sure to mention that her shortness of breath could quite possibly be due to her complete unwillingness to pause while speaking.

"First you complain that I don't talk enough, and now I speak too often? At least Icontribute to the conversation," she argued. "If you'd like to complain about the frequency of my speech, then you might as well do something to fill the silence so I don't have to do it for you."

"And if I prefer the silence?"

"You wouldn't be asking me to join you on these walks," she said pointedly. Without waiting for a response—_This is exactly what I was talking about_, he rolled his eyes—she repeated her question: "So, Latin, French, and a bit of Spanish… If there are individuals out there who specialize in knowing various languages, why would your family or someone like you bother to learn them?"

Draco didn't miss the hint of jealousy in her tone, but chose to focus on indignity rather than torment. "Like _me_?"

"You know—royals with plenty of other obligations at hand. Why didn't your family just get someone else to do it for them?"

"A Malfoy may have the money to ensure the job to someone else, but it doesn't mean they have the trust."

Hermione pondered this. "Is it common for royals to know more than one language?"

"It doesn't matter what is common or important to other royals," he said lowly, suddenly very aware of the weight of his limbs. "The only thing that mattered was what was important to a Malfoy."

Interestingly enough, Granger didn't respond right away. To the Prince's great surprise, she seemed to be very deep in thought, mulling over his words with an intensity that kept _him_ silent. As much as he wasn't one to complain about such a brief period of rest during what was normally a tiring experience, the downward shift to her calculating eyes was making it difficult to concentrate on enjoying the reprieve. As they spiraled their way down through the castle halls, making their way closer and closer to the library to inevitably part ways, Draco began to wonder if she had finally listened to his taunts, and had gotten the fortuitous sense to clamp it down a bit. He should have been relieved.

But he wasn't.

The silence was growing awkward, and she seemed totally impervious to it, which only heightened his discomfort, and stilted and jumbled his thoughts. Subtly, he sighed twice with the expectation that she would address his rudeness or some other illogical fault that she would no doubt love to try exposing, and yet: nothing. It was only as they were reaching the corner near the library doors that she made a motion to say anything, and it was at the precise moment that Draco was going to blurt out something incendiary that she chose to rekindle the conversation.

"You said what _was_ important," she noted carefully. Draco, however, seemed to have lost her meaning over the course of their travels.

"Granger," he chided snidely. "You're going to have to be a bit more specific."

She looked up at him with clear eyes, and Draco once again felt a little alarmed by the total lack of animosity within them, and the naked curiosity as its replacement. "You said that what mattered was what was important for a Malfoy… but I don't know what that means."

Draco immediately stiffened, but forced himself to remain still. "That, Granger," he stated slowly, deliberately. "Is a loaded question."

She waited patiently, but he offered nothing more than a hardened glare. She sighed, but she did not wilt; with a slight nod, she accepted his reticence. "Then I don't suppose you might be able to clarify the other facet of my question. If you are not willing to tell me more about what it means to be a Malfoy, would you then tell me if what _was_ important before… is no longer so?"

Draco felt something harden and cool in the pit of his stomach. "Why would such a question occur to you?"

Hermione did not look down, but he could see her fighting the urge. He watched the workings of her throat as she swallowed, and was oddly transfixed. "I'm trying… I suppose I'm trying to better understand."

_Understand… _what_, exactly?_

He stared her down, mistrust and suspicion etched clearly across his features, but she held her ground. There were many burning questions on the tip of his tongue, hidden right behind his fangs, but one smoldered above all else, and he would not—_could_ not—release it yet.

_Why?_

She had opened her mouth to say something further, perhaps to clarify or amend, but he never learned of what she next wanted to tell him because a loud crash suddenly sounded from just beyond the library doors. The Prince looked up with no moderate level of annoyance, and his eyes narrowed at the intrusive sounds now filtering down the corridor.

"What's going on?" she asked, composure suddenly faltering. At first he wasn't sure if he should bother to explain or if he should just let her discern for herself, but in the end he decided that at least a warning would be appropriate. He refused to acknowledge the fact that such a decision would not only distract her from his lack of an answer to her rather invasive question, but would also allow him the perfect opportunity to flee.

"Your acquaintanceshave made themselves… comfortable in your absence," he drawled, and he could see the strain settling between her brows. "I'd recommend directing them to a more suitable location. After that, you're on your own."

"On my… what do you—?"

But he was already making his escape down the adjacent corridor, and her words were nothing but a distant whisper as he ascended to his chambers…

Echoing, echoing, in his ears.

* * *

Left alone to fend for herself in the corridor, Hermione was not pleased.

Having just been interrupted from yet another infuriating conversation—_Altercation!_ —with the Prince, she wasn't sure how she should feel… Normally, such a disruption would be a welcome intervention, but she had just been on the brink of asking a question that she felt held serious weight… when her so-called friends had inadvertently destroyed her chance and sent the Price running. _What on Earth could be going in there? What did the Master hear? _She had also been hoping to manage a quiet, restful evening after the eventual end of her meeting with the Prince, in which she could continue her escape planning before retiring for bed at an appropriate hour… but it seemed luck was never on her side these days.

_Please tell me it's not another Bingo night._

"You're nothing but a personified cape, Lee. No, no, a cape is much too dignified! You're but an old rag!"

And oh, but indeed it was.

Standing outside the doors to the library while the raucous and rambunctious laughter filtered out through the cracks, Hermione hesitated. It would be so much easier to just return to her rooms straightaway… But with the unsatisfied void left from her unfulfilled curiosity with the Prince, and in a fit of bravery, Hermione reminded herself that this library was technically _her_ space as well for the time being, and pushed open a door with slight trepidation. She had expected chaos; instead, she found madness.

"Is… is that alcohol?" she wondered aloud.

"Ah!" cried Neville. "Miss Hermione!"

Gathered around her favorite window seat was the regular assortment of chips and cards, as well as the riff-raff gang of objects. This time, however, instead of stiff faces and stealthy eyes, she saw that the various cheeks of her companions were impossibly pink and their eyes were strangely hazed.

Not to mention the numerous empty bottles of gin scattered about the floor.

"Hermione!" Blaise cried from his throw pillow. "This is splendid! Now you can join us!"

Hermione eyed them all reproachfully, wondering if she would sound ungrateful if she asked them to move to another room, or if she would sound too matronly if she scolded them for such habits. Before she could truly consider either, however, Dean was stepping in to perform a measure of damage control.

"We're sorry, Hermione!" Dean said, though Hermione decided it was too cheerful to imply true guilt. "It's just that we wanted to be here for you when you got back! But we were waiting for so long…"

"So we decided to spice things up a bit!" Seamus called loudly from the window as well. He was surrounded by a hoard of females, Hermione noticed with a skeptical brow… and he was also situated next to Dean. _Interesting. Apparently, a bit of booze and women were the only medicines they needed to patch up their friendship? _Hermione paused, shocked by her own conclusions, and the unusual vulgarity within them. _That's enough now, Hermione. This castle is obviously rubbing off on me. The people back in Little Whinging would never let me live it down if they knew that Miss "Know-It-All" Granger were speaking in such an improper way._

_But… When did I start thinking in such a way? _

"Care to taste, Miss Hermione?" asked Blaise as he hopefully gestured to an unopened bottle resting on the floor. She eyed him with narrowed lids.

"Aren't you the least bit concerned with setting the pillows on fire with your wriggling?"

"Allow us some credit, my dear, Hermione! We are experts at managing these bodies of ours by now, as you must realize. Your pillows are safe."

"You are surrounded by a highly flammable substance."

"Miss Hermione, when Blaise Zabini is in range, _everything_ is highly flammable," he nearly purred, and the lady-objects around him giggled and cooed over his words.

Hermione leveled him with a serious look. She considered questioning his diction (_You do realize, Blaise, that 'flammable' in any context means combustible and destroyable, and therefore this adjective is not the best fit for your sexual undertones, thereby—_) and decided to change the subject lest she put herself in the situation of perpetually acting as the stick in the mud, or having to listen to the any of the females' mindless male-centered chatter for the rest of the night.

"So how 'bout it, Hermione?" Lee repeated.

"Thank you, but I think that you might all be drunk enough to compensate for my lack of participation… though again, like with the eating, I'm not entirely sure I want to know how that's possible."

"Oh, they're not _really _drunk, Hermione," Dean laughed cheerfully. "They're just pretending for ol' time's sake!"

"Speak for yourself, you overgrown splinter," Blaise interrupted. "I am positively _sloshed_."

"What does that even mean?"

"It means, my bristly friend, that you are not sloshed enough."

"Just wait until McGonagall finds out that you've been giving Miss Hermione this impression of us!" Neville shakily warned, sending Miss Hermione nervous glances while trying to maintain an intimidating glare at his colleagues.

"Please," Blaise drawled. "I'm sure McGoogle would make a splendid drunk."

"Splendid?" Hermione asked.

"Of the most fabulous kind."

"I'll take your word for it," Hermione said with an almost contemplative look.

"Hermione, dearie, what kind of drunk are you?" Blaise asked.

Hermione couldn't contain her surprise. "Alcohol and I don't really mix, Blaise."

"Alas," he lamented. "What a shame. I wonder what you would be like." He turned to Seamus. "What say you?"

"Well," Seamus said thoughtfully as he pondered this. "To repeat a tried and true phrase: she's nothing, if not thorough." Hermione's eyebrow twitched.

"I think that she would make a very affectionate individual," Luna said suddenly from her space on the sill, and Hermione nearly jumped at the sound of her voice. "She's not an overtly affectionate kind of person while sober, and I think that her drunken state would complement her usual disposition rather nicely."

Hermione forced her features to remain neutral, and her heart to stay calm. _What's that supposed to mean? I'm affectionate! Just because you may not get to see it because you're all a bunch of books and candles who I've just barely met and, and, and—honestly, I don't need to drink! I don't even want to! Besides—Luna is practically drunk all of the time!_

"What are you drinking, anyway?" She asked suddenly, searching for an escape from their speculative eyes and her troublesome thoughts.

"Butterbeer!"

"What?" Hermione blinked. "I've never heard of such a thing."

"It's our finest secret!"

"You're a talking broom and _that's _your finest secret?"

"We are a mysterious bunch, no?"

"Indeed," she concurred half-heartedly, already feeling her temples ache. "And where would one acquire this Butterbeer?"

A cold sense of dread filled her stomach as she spied the wary, hesitant glances shared amongst the troop, all of whom were sprinkled throughout the piles of littered bottles of spirits. "You see, Hermione," Dean suddenly began, abnormally skittish. "It's not as if we would have any other way of procuring it, so we really have no choice—"

"Dean," Hermione released with a gasp. "Dean, tell me that you didn't _steal_ it!"

"Would you please clarify your definition of what it might mean to 'steal,' by any chance?"

"Blaise! Dean! Seamus!" she turned to them in disbelief. "_Neville_?" The pot wilted with despair. Luna gently patted his rim with a crinkly page.

"It's all very subjective, Miss Hermione!" Seamus defended from his rather compromising position; she was pretty sure he was the one surrounded by the most bottles… as well as the most ladies. _Though I probably shouldn't mention either of those observations aloud, for the sake of Blaise's insufferable pride._

"You know what?" Hermione deflated with a sigh after a long moment. "On second thought, I'm not sure I can handle the truth." _Too many unnecessary truths in this castle have caught me off-guard already. I'll wait for another day to scold them. _"I believe it's already time for bed," Hermione nodded sagely, determined to direct her attention elsewhere.

"I think that would be wise," Luna smiled dreamily.

"Nonsense," Blaise slurred. "We're animals. We'll be up all night."

"Well," Hermione said, finally utilizing her matronly tone. "I suppose I'll just go by myself."

"No, Hermione," Blaise whined. "Never alone! Ladies and Lads, we shall accompany the fine maiden to her chambers. To the main staircase!"

"I thought it was the _grand_ staircase?" Dean asked. "You are obviously too drunk to navigate anyone anywhere."

"Dean?"

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

* * *

Floors and floors above, another kind of battle raged on: a massive cloaked figure lingering in the shadows and a delicate form framed within a mirror were at odds. Draco had not anticipated a welcoming reception, but he had not expected such animosity either; given Pansy's knack for predictability, this discrepancy was disconcerting.

"You were with _her_ again."

The large beast sent her a challenging look. "Your point?"

"Draco, it's been ages since you've been around!"

With a shrug, he rolled his eyes. "It's been a few weeks. That hardly qualifies as _ages_."

"Do you have any idea how long that can feel for a person who is normally used to seeing anything she wants? I've been keeping an eye on the villagers just like you've asked… why can't I just come along with you when you make your rounds about the castle? I deserve such a treat!"

"No," he firmly commanded. "I don't need any bloody audience. I already told those imbeciles to keep their noses out of my business and to keep their advice to themselves from now on, and I won't have you trying to slither your way into doing the same thing."

"But Draco!"

"_Pansy_," he warned.

Her pout deepened. "This is completely unfair."

"What's got you in such a vile mood?" Draco asked with a quirked brow. "I would have thought that your new magic trick would have been more than enough to keep you occupied."

Expression set firmly in a moue, Pansy huffed indignantly. "I would be better occupied if you would let me speak with her!"

The slanted eyes narrowed more suspiciously. "I already told you; it is not your place. I realize that forbidding you to take a glimpse at her would only be encouraging your insubordinate self to misuse those supernatural abilities of yours… You've no doubt already done so, I imagine." Pansy's gaze faltered to the floor in reluctant admission. "What I _will not_ permit, however, is any degree of communication between the two of you."

"But what I don't understand," she reiterated, using her naturally smooth voice to heighten the innocence. "Is why? What concerns could you possibly have?"

He sent her a flat look, and the plainness of his tone jarred her more than the words within it. "You were never very good at keeping secrets, Pansy."

Her brows weakly furrowed in defense, a futile testament to the contrariness of her position, and she could not immediately produce an argument. Consciousness of gossip had been a necessity of survival when surrounded by prominent members of the Court, and consciousness of gossip had been a beloved friend when presented with such overwhelming, cursed isolation.

"I have always kept yours," she whispered quietly, not bothering to hide her sulking. After a heavy pause, he sighed.

"You have," he acknowledged tiredly, and he ran a clawed hand through the tangle of fur at his nape. "And I haven't forgotten."

Her eyes grew alight at the sight of his relaxing stance. "You can always trust me, Draco," she breathed, and her heart began racing. She hoped he didn't notice her shaking fingers, or the confession lying deep within her promise; that would come with time—and soon, if everything went according to plan—but not today, and not now. "With anything."

"With any secret of _mine_," he amended. "But this is not merely my secret to keep."

Pansy's brows creased more deeply, and the hurt she felt laid itself clearly over the expanse between them. "What are you saying?"

With a deep sigh, Draco unceremoniously dropped himself to the floor a few paces from the mirror, and rested his elbows atop his knees. With his expression stern and his eyes meeting hers directly across the barrier, he reminded her of the severity of their situation: "You are an asset to this kingdom, Pansy. For years, you have stayed by my side, as both a servant and…"

Pansy noticed his hesitation, and the beat within her spiked to an impossible rhythm. "Yes?"

"A friend."

_Ah._

Pansy swallowed, and was briefly lost in the sensation of having to keep the awful formation at the back of her throat at bay. She could not help but imagine that instead of removing the bile that she knew was there, she in fact had to tamp down the heart that had so quickly maneuvered itself out of place.

"—but that is precisely why you _know_ that it's best for you to remain out of her sight. Track her, utilize your powers for collecting information, if your curiosity insists, but you must not attempt to contact her directly."

She was barely listening. No longer was her throat a concern; the painful churning in her stomach was now grinding against itself with debilitating force—threatening to spill out, but inside there was nothing, there had been nothing there for years, so_ what difference would it make?—_and it took all of her power to not place a steadying hand at her midsection. To do so would be showing weakness.

And above all else, Pansy knew—breathed, lived, _understood_—that one did not ever, ever show weakness to Draco Malfoy.

"Pansy," his voice cut in over the chaos inside her mind. "Pansy, I asked if you understood. You are not to reach out to her simply for the sake of your own foolish curiosity."

Pansy glanced up through the haze of her disorientation, her eyes narrowing slightly in concentration. She was not allowed to reach out to her… because? Warmth flooded her veins as she realized the fault within his words. She may not be allowed to contact the woman out of her own selfish desires, but... what of the welfare of the woman's closest loved ones? _Including her little freckled lover?_ Draco was aware of her observations of the village, but not her communications… What if her role as a royal liaison just happened to transform—by pure coincidence—into a messenger for _all_?

"Do you understand, Pansy?"

_Oh, Draco, _she thought with affectionate admonishment as she tried to hide a smile. _You should know better than to be so careless with your words. This is only one of the reasons why you need me—but for now, your carelessness will only aid my mission. Our goal. _

_Us._

"I understand," she said somberly, with all of the good reverence of a loyal servant. "I will not contact her."

_Yet._

* * *

Ron was seething.

At that very moment in the cozy space of the Burrow and seemingly on the opposite end of the universe, Harry grimly watched as his redheaded friend paced across the threadbare rug in the close quarters of a room that they shared.

"This is total, utter bollocks," he ranted, his voice already hoarse. "Where do they get off thinking that they can threaten us? It's only been a few weeks! The search was only just recently dismantled—she's still—they can't—_dammit_!"

"Ron," Harry warned, his body stiff and his voice terse. "That's enough."

"Bloody hell, Harry!" Ron shouted, kicking the leg of his desk chair with his boot. "Don't you even care about what happened tonight? Those bastards are out there right now, probably taking advantage of some other sorry bloke's money, probably drinking and gambling until their greasy little fingers bleed, and scheming a way to come back and take _everything_ from her!"

"Get a hold of yourself!" Harry shouted, but he too, was now standing.

"Oh, that's rich coming from you. At the first sign of trouble, you're always the first to blow! But the second _I_ lose something that's important to me—the moment I'm—"

"Being a selfish prat," the dark-haired man hissed, his spectacles rolling askew over the bridge of his nose. He righted them with a jerk of his arm and a flick of his wrist as the heat rushed to the redhead's face.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ron spat.

"Look at you! You think you're the only one who cares about her?" Harry shouted.

"No!"

"You think you're the only one affected by her being gone?"

"Fuck, Harry! No!"

"You think you're the only one who misses her?" Harry breathed heavily, but at the sight of Ron's bewildered stare, he took a moment to rest. When he spoke again, it was much more softly... more painfully. "You don't think your mother is down at the bottom of the stairs right this moment, trying to figure out how the hell she's going to take care of your father while she's so worried about you? You don't think that every single person in this house—in this _village_—is already sick with worry about where she might be?"

_I know where she is_, Ron's mind distantly whispered. The unconscious thought struck him with surprise, and he was too stunned to reply. _I know, I know, but I can't tell you where she is. I can't tell anyone. _

Harry looked away toward the window dejectedly, and fell back to sit on his bed in exhaustion. "You're not the only one who lost her, mate."

For a moment, all Ron could do was stare stupidly across the room, lost in the torrent of sickening sensations that were suddenly coursing through him. _I know. I know, I know_.

"Shit, Harry," Ron breathed as he plopped down on the opposite bed, and his head fell between his knees. He focused on trying to calm his breathing—_What is it that Hermione always says? Count to ten or some rubbish?—_but it hurt too much to dwell on either concept. "Shit."

"I think that's been established," Harry said dryly, but he sounded so tired. Ron looked up with weary eyes into a matching set.

"God, I'm sorry, Harry," he groaned, running a hand through wild hair. "I just… I…"

"I know," he cut him off, and Ron realized belatedly that Harry had already moved to the spot next to him on the bed. "I get it." The smile he gave Ron was obviously an effort in consolation, but the unmistakable twists of mourning set in his lips gave everything else away.

Ron wanted to say something ridiculous to help break the tension, to regain a sense of normality, but everything sounded so trite and inadequate to his ears. Where was the Ron that fixed his mistakes with an awkward phrase? Who mended the smiles of friends with careless gestures and carefree words?

"I don't know how we're going to put up with you being like this," Harry remarked offhandedly, beating Ron to his trademark relief execution.

"Funny," Ron shook his head, his shame still lingering in the creases of his eyes. "Though I can't imagine it being any more difficult than handling Percy."

Harry nodded slightly, and bemusement reached his eyes. "Fair enough."

Ron looked behind the wire-rimmed glasses and Ron thought he truly saw Harry for what felt like the first time in days. The same blotchiness, the same dark creases, the same tired lids… Harry's expression matched his own.

"I'm an outright prick, aren't I?" he asked with a groan.

"No more so than usual," Harry nodded, his amusement growing. "But somehow, we manage."

"I don't know what to do without her," Ron said suddenly, and Harry grew still.

"I know," he whispered.

"What are you supposed to do when someone that close to you just… is just gone?"

Ron saw Harry shrug slightly before he turned away, staring into the darkness beyond the window once more. Suddenly, something didn't feel right to Ron… like something obvious had been misplaced, but he was only just realizing it now in that moment.

"You just keep holding onto the others around you, I guess," he said quietly with another shrug.

"Holy—God, Harry!" Ron sputtered all of a sudden, and grabbed the sleeve at the other boy's shoulder. "I forgot! How could I—damn, Harry, I really am a bloody prick." Harry just offered a quirk of his lips, an in-between of an understanding glance and a sad smile.

"I promise, Ron," he said quietly. "With everything that's been going, the last thing I wanted to do was bring it back to everyone's attention."

"But Harry," Ron began, and then faltered. What could he even say? How could someone claim the title of a best friend, and then be as horrible of a person as he had been? How could he forget?

The anniversary of Harry Potter's parents' deaths… and the night he nearly died.

"Enough," said the spectacled man with a shake of his head and the wave of a dismissing hand. "It was a week ago or so. Don't worry about it."

"Are you sure there… there isn't anything you want to talk about or something?" Ron asked tentatively. Harry gave him a skeptical look. "I mean, I know you usually talked about these things with _her_… especially after what happened to her parents last year, but…"

"I… think we can skip that part," Harry said.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," he reassured, sounding a little uncomfortable.

"Good," Ron sighed in noticeable relief. "She's much better at that stuff than I am." Harry broke into a genuine smile.

"She's much better than us at most things."

"Isn't that the truth?" Ron laughed. "Look… I'm sorry that I was such a rotten friend, but you know I'm here… if…"

"I know," Harry said as he clapped him on the shoulder. "And I thought we were going to skip all of that?"

"Right. Wouldn't want to steal Hermione's thunder for when she gets back."

Harry looked surprised to hear the name, and he masked the doubt in his eyes with the hope and determination in his smile. "Right," he agreed. "As soon as she's home."

Harry's words echoed in Ron's ears.

_As soon as she's home._

_._

_._

_._

_Soon._

* * *

_What was important…_

The resounding trail of thunder rumbled from across the massive forest, but Draco didn't seem to hear. Settled on the rail of balcony of the Astronomy Tower, the Prince allowed himself to be assailed with the droves of rain droplets, which soaked into both his cloak and fur indiscriminately. The wind howled as the expanse of endless rain turned everything grey; the turbulent haze would have been no match for his naturally sharp eyes, had they not been so clouded with doubt.

_What was important?_

What was important was that he be allowed his privacy, that he be respected, that he uphold his family legacy, that he save his kingdom, that…

That he fall in love with her.

His eyes narrowed, and suddenly the icy spikes of rainfall filtered into his attention. The sharpness of the cold and the unyielding sheet across eyes—_a well-deserved punishment_—reminded him that there was once a time when such drastic conditions would phase him… that not so very long ago, everything had been different; what had mattered to him, what he had taken for granted, what he had lost… so much of it had changed. Not so very long ago—_a lifetime ago_—he had been human.

_Or something like it_.

Draco shook the water from his eyes, and directed his thoughts back down an earlier, though no simpler, path. Despite the urgency he felt in developing his feelings for the sake of breaking the curse, he was finding the task unsurprisingly challenging; after all, how could one _force_ oneself to care for another being? It was impossible.

Draco supposed that to a certain extent he could appreciate her use of what _she_ might consider wit; although not easily admitted, he had come to understand the value of her ability to entertain him, what with her short fuse and erratic behaviors. With such easy buttons to push—_shove—_he could not help but allow her to get away with bending a rule or two… all for the sake of knowing her reaction, of course. It had never been a frequent occurrence that he should found someone so ready and willing to challenge his authority, and her insubordination could be just as engaging as it was infuriating.

And lately… lately he had begun to notice a difference in her general demeanor. As more and more days passed, he saw less rancor, less hatred, and instead saw startling changes in her eyes, with seemingly foreign emotions like curiosity, vexation and… amusement? Her comportment tonight, with her eager eyes and patient voice and penetrating questions, should not have come as such a surprise, he supposed, but he still wondered at the cause of the change.

_Am I still an enemy in her eyes? When did she begin to see me as anything but her captor?_

Their arrangement had proven useful; although he had not originally intended to promise her anything, he found that his spontaneous affirmation of safety had been more powerful than he'd anticipated. Did a few words of simple promise mean that much to someone like her? Was that all that it would take to earn her trust? He knew from firsthand experience the futility of promises.

_A promise is naught but a lie in disguise_, his father's voice echoed. Draco cleared the sharp memories by focusing on the song of the rain and letting the drops seep into his eyes.

Perhaps she was simply growing accustomed to the castle? As much as it pained him, he had to acknowledge that a great deal of her growing sense of comfort within his walls had much to do with the influence of his servants. But could _he_ have somehow played an influence over the changes he observed within her as well?

_And have I changed as a result?_

It was true that his conversations had been limited to a choice few individuals since the loss of his humanity—_if I were ever even a man to begin with—_and this sudden surge in interaction beyond the Astronomy Tower was… an adjustment. For one reason or another, the young woman sustained his taunts and sneers—_as if she had a choice_—and he was finding now that he had grown used to their talks… that she had become a part of his routine. Had she really become something of the familiar so quickly?

His lip curled downward, tugging at the fur layered upon his jaw. The tightness of the skin of this body was something to which he had never fully grown accustomed, and he was briefly caught by an image of unmarred features on a pale, barely-remembered face. It had been years since he had seen such a reflection… since the platinum of his life—his hair, his eyes, his parents, his kingdom—were replaced with hidden, transparent, unmistakable wounds.

And still, they bled.

_Would you understand, father?_ Draco pleaded with the rain. _Would you support my decision to try?_

What was important?

He couldn't decide.

All of the ideals he had kept, all of the life visions he had held, the family traditions he had earned the right to fulfill… they were instilled in him by those who cared for him most, yes… Yet they were taught by the man who had destroyed him.

A roll of thunder filled his gut with heavy reverberations, and it was not until the lightning flashed that he realized the vibrations within him were his snarls. _Would you think I've betrayed you, mother? _He wondered. _You and father were so strong in your convictions against those below us… But wasn't _he_ convinced as well? How can two entirely different species—_he_ could not have been human, never, despite the long years and promises and—how could they both believe in the same ideals and yet be so different? _

Unless, he wondered… they weren't so different after all.

But he banished the thought.

"What does it mean to be _human_?" he asked the rain, and he let the rivulets flow between his fangs. He'd thought he's known once, when he was young and foolish and trusting, but it was undeniable that he had been asking himself these questions for years.

What was important to a Malfoy?

He had been trying to fight it, but Draco could not hold out any longer; he was torn. For instead of solely seeing his father's disappointed scowl stream across his eyes, he had begun to see Snape's as well. He could not help but wonder: who was more of a father to him—his chef or his King?

_And that,_ he thought. _Might be the worst betrayal of all._

What _was_ important?

All that mattered now, in this moment, in this nightmare, was finding a way to salvage his kingdom. Whether or not the remains would have been of any value to his mother and father, or if the cost of its survival would have been worth the fall of the Malfoy name in their eyes, all of it remained to be seen… but as he'd encountered with every other aspect of life—his title, his duty, his transformation—Draco knew of no other path to take; in his eyes, he'd never had a choice.

_And what if this is all for naught? What if my feelings for her never grow? What if I fail?_

A flash of lightning lit the sky on fire with the piercing color of frost, and all he could see were his father's eyes.

_I have to try._

What was most important?

He wished he could believe that it was _this_, but he knew it would only be a lie.

* * *

"Hermione, don't you have any heart for what happened to our Master? To what _may _happen to him?"

Hermione finished fastening the last button of her long, slender night gown, and rolled her eyes at the persistent voices coming from her room on the other side of the bathroom door. With a quick move of her arms, her shawl was set firmly in place around her shoulders and she was through the door.

"You are certainly fixated on this tonight," Hermione commented as she reached her luxurious bed. She tried to ignore the twittering of the Wardrobe Twins—_Oh my goodness, that reminds me! I nearly forgot about Padma!—_as she fluffed the pillows unnecessarily in an uncharacteristically passive hint to the others that she'd like to sleep, but it was no use.

"We are all regularly troubled for our Master and the state of our castle! I am merely taking the liberty of expressing our collective concern more freely tonight."

"You know, Blaise," Hermione remarked with poorly concealed amusement. "I think you grow more obstinate with each passing day."

"I prefer _persistent_."

"More commonly referred to as pestilent," Dean muttered.

"Oh, come now, Hermione! Haven't you already told us of your sympathy toward our potentially dark fates?"

After a flabbergasted pause, Hermione gave an especially powerful thump to one of her many pillows. _As if they even had any idea! _Her mind fussed. _If they only knew what I was doing for them now, even as we speak! Of course it would just be my rotten luck that the one person… cauldron… Midas betrays my confidence for is the one object that doesn't pester me for information!_

But wait. That wasn't entirely true anymore, was it?

_That manipulative Snape! That silly owl, Midas! That infuriating, bullheaded Master!_

"Look," Hermione suddenly ground out; her fluffing became pugilism. "Just because a rattlesnake is wounded doesn't mean that one should stoop down and pet it!"

"Rattlesnake?" Neville repeated. "Where?"

"Your Master," Hermione explained with a huff as she climbed to sit against the headboard.

"But why a rattlesnake?" Dean pondered. "I thought you called him a ferret?"

"I did!"

"So which is he?" Blaise wanted to know.

"He's both!"

"Isn't he more of a wolf?" Neville asked, thoroughly confused.

"But that is hardly the _point_."

Hermione blinked.

What was her point again?

"It doesn't matter," she said, more to herself than to the five before her. "First he's downright impossible, and now he's just being incorrigible for the sake of being incorrigible, so who knows what's next?" A sigh. "I mean, really… I won't be able to take much more of him if he keeps this up. Do you remember yesterday when he made a disgraceful comment about the way I smell again? I show up at his castle in the middle of the night, only moderately dirty with all things considered _one_ time, and he just won't let it go! I am not, nor is my odor, _muddy_."

"Hermione, that wasn't what you fought about yesterday," Neville piped up. "You had that disagreement two days ago, right before you imagined _him_ falling down in the mud. That was also the day that you agreed to make an effort to stop twirling your hair around your fingers while you talked as long as he conceded that your table manners weren't as awful as he liked to proclaim."

Hermione paused. That couldn't be right.

"Two days ago? But that was when we were arguing over the species of the tree by the fountain in the southeast corner of the courtyard."

"Actually, Hermione," Dean chimed in. "That was more like four days ago."

"Don't you remember?" Neville peered at her curiously.

"I… Well, I guess the days are blurring together a little bit," she muttered, brows furrowing slightly.

"Time flies when you're having fun, eh?"

"Right," she repeated without much feeling.

"It's because she's hardly had any sleep, that's why!" Neville announced, nettled on her behalf. "Miss Hermione needs her rest!"

"But we're animals!"

"_You_ may be some kind of animal," Hermione conceded. "Candlestick or no. But I am still human, and I think Neville is right."

"Alas," Blaise cried, though he was already moving himself off of the bed. "The impossible has finally occurred."

"We'll see you in the morning! Right, Hermione?"

"Yes, Dean," Hermione assured him, already reveling in the thought of being able to snuff off the lights. "Save some porridge for me."

"I'll try, Hermione, but you have to know that Blaise is very cranky when he pretends to be hung over. You may have to fight him for it."

"I am a lover, not a fighter, _thank you_."

"Oh, Blaise!" Lavender and Parvati giggled.

"I think that's a match I'd feel confident in, but I appreciate the warning," Hermione smiled, no longer able to contain her excitement about a restful night of sleep, regardless of her roommates' antics. "Goodnight, you three!" she called, as Neville ushered the candlestick and paintbrush out the door.

"Now, Hermione, you absolutely _must_ tell us all about what happened earlier on your—"

"Please… in the morning," Hermione said tiredly, but mustered enough finality in her tone to leave the Wardrobe Twins hushed. "Ask me whatever you want, just _please_ leave it until the morning."

Hermione completed her nightly ritual of mentally counting her supplies… which were hidden under the floorboard containing the diary. She had upheld her promise not to peek inside the pages again, despite the itch she felt every time she added another piece to her supplies collection, and she was determined to stay strong. _Map of castle on the scrap of cloth, unidentified skeleton key, spare parchment, stolen quill… _For once, the girls were considerate enough to keep silent, and it wasn't long before all three of them were deeply situated in the throes of peaceful slumber.

Until, of course, she felt Midas gently rapping his beak against her knuckles some hours later.

"No," she whispered, still desperately clinging onto her pillow. Midas responded by hovering about her headboard, and picking at a few choice curls of hair. "Midas? What is it?"

And before she could even fully register what was happening, Midas had dropped a fine envelope into her hand, and had flown out of sight. Suddenly alert, Hermione grasped the envelope with uncertain hands, and felt the sheets fall to her waist as she sat upright. She quickly glanced to the sleeping figures to the side of the room, and once assured that the Wardrobe Twins were still at rest, Hermione slipped out from underneath the covers and silently made her way to the light of the window, where the storm raged on.

It was from Lupin.

Struggling to contain her gasp, Hermione ripped open the envelope with unsteady fingers, and collapsed onto the cushions as she fought to quietly retrieve the parchment.

.

.

.

_Miss Hermione Granger,_

_First, let me say how good it is to hear from you. Are you well? How is the Weasley family faring? Please send them my regards, as I have not heard from anyone in Little Whinging besides Hagrid and yourself in quite some time. Secondly, I must admit… I was more than a little surprised to see an owl at my window with your letter in hand! Tell me, is this a new trick of Hagrid's? What an efficient mode of correspondence!_

_What was just as surprising, however, was your sudden interest in werewolf folklore. May I inquire as to what inspired the change of heart toward my most prided line of work? It has, after all, been many months since I have last heard from you, and although my heart is warmed by your sudden curiosity in my specialty, I would be remiss to not first speak of how the university faculty has worried for your happiness or prayed for your wellness after all that has… _

Hermione's eyes guiltily trailed down the paper, unable to linger on the condolences and words of understanding, and immediately searched for the heart of the letter instead. Professor Lupin had been thorough in his research, and Hermione soon found herself reading about monthly cycles and bite wound curses and Greek mythology with words like _anthropomorphic_ and _lycanthropy _until her eyes strained. By the time Hermione neared the end, her mind was spinning and her ears were ringing.

She paused briefly to rest her eyes, and arched her neck back to find the wall's support. All of this seemed _close_ to what she had so far seen in the Prince, but nothing… entirely accurate. Lupin's information held plenty of near-truths and possible leads about his majesty's current state, but nothing that gave Hermione any clear feelings of satisfaction. And what good would a stream of myths and folk-tale histories do her if none of them matched up with _this_ farfetched tale?

Crinkling the edges of the parchment between her fingertips, she looked toward the final paragraphs with a sigh.

_While formulating my research for your inquiry, I came across a piece of information that is somewhat related to our discussion. You'll find this rather interesting, but I know you would prefer that I not spoil your intrigue by simply giving it away. Thus, I will present you with a riddle instead. You will find what I've created for you on the back of this page._

_Please feel no rush in returning a quick reply—unless, of course, you would like to share more about the trick with this owl! Honestly, that you trained him to return at the precise moment I was finishing this letter is absolutely extraordinary. As always, do let me know if there is any other way that I may be of service to you or the Weasley family. We at the university all send our most heartfelt regards… Your father was a brilliant man, you mother was a kind woman, and you have inherited all that made them admirable. You should remember that you can always find support here in London, Miss Granger. _

_Best wishes,_

_Professor Remus Lupin_

.

.

.

Chest tight and throat thick, Hermione quickly turned over the page, unable to bear the parting words any longer. Scanning the four lines of script with desperate eyes, she ached to distract herself, and plowed onward.

_**I am full, but not yet satisfied.  
For me, just once is not enough.**_

_**'Tis a pity then, that a twosome I must wait,**_  
_**until a twosome once again becomes my face.**_

"Interesting," Hermione murmured, ignoring the shaking in her bones. She settled further into the cushions, listening to the patter of the rain, and tapped her lips thoughtfully with her knuckles. She reread the riddle over and over, but the words presented no stroke of recognition, regardless of how she squinted at the trails of ink. It was only after the fifth time or so that she realized something rather important.

She was no longer tired.

"Curses," she whispered moodily under her breath, and shifted her eyes to the dozing armoire and bureau. The hour had to be very late into the night, but the thought of returning to her uselessly large bed for hours of unavoidable tossing and turning unsettled her stomach. Was it even worth it to try? _It can't be helped_, she thought, making up her mind.

She waited until she was in the corridor, warm within her woolen shawl and cloak, before she lit the spare candle and quietly made her way to the library. The pour of the rain drowned out the soft padding of her footsteps as she trailed over the many steps and stones in an otherwise contented silence. Perhaps being alone in such dark, empty spaces would have alarmed her before… but for now she was calm. There was an odd sense of tranquility in the distant rolls of thunder and a touch of familiarity in the castle's night sounds along the well-worn path to her sanctuary. Though alert, the feel of the cold stones under her fingertips as she rounded a corner and the smoothness of the lacquered wooden railings under her sleeve were soothing, like the warmth and acceptance of an unlikely friend.

She slipped beyond the large doors with little noise, and immediately reclaimed her favorite window seat. Noting with distant approval that the others had cleaned up after their mess, Hermione laid her cloak over her legs as a blanket and set the lone candle in the holder on the sill. She picked up the first book within reach without care for the title, and absently wished it were red.

Pages later, Hermione regretted not bringing another set of blankets with her. The cloak was useful, but sitting so close to the glass while the storm raged outside had concomitantly brought her endless shivers… and sneezes.

_The others are going to kill me if I get myself ill_, she thought with a twinge of dread. _And it's not as if I'll really be able to explain what brought me down here like this in the first place_. _I will be fine if I eventually return before any of them awake… though I wonder if somehow they'll find out about my little excursion, anyway. Sometimes this castle seems so sentient that I wonder if the walls can truly speak._

_Stupid girl_, she chided softly, as another sneeze wracked her frame. _The whole castle is enchanted. Of course it feels alive._

"Bloody cold," Hermione whispered to herself as she tightened the shawl about her huddled shoulders. "Silly, unpredictable weather."

"Blaming the rain, are we?"

Hermione's head snapped to the direction of the library's far-off entrance as every strand of hair rose on pitiful end. She'd opened her mouth for way of an explanation, but it'd gone dry and tight, and there was nothing that she could really say except, "Your highness."

"I'm beginning to think that your foolishness knows no bounds, Granger," he said as he let the door close with a soft thud and neared her window with languid strides. "Placing fault on the nearing-winter is no way to excuse your inadequate layers."

Still shocked by his presence and further stupefied by the calmness of his voice, Hermione could only stare; it was the first time she had ever seen him inside the library before. She was immediately hit with a wave of concern that her sanctuary may now become another cell to her prison, but the thought didn't last. Something about the way he was staring into the muddled abyss beyond the glass pulled at her chest… and she wondered if that was how she looked when she peered outside as well.

"I'm sorry for disturbing you," she said quietly, before she could stop herself. He glanced toward her with an inquisitive brow.

"For traipsing through my castle with your thundering footfalls, or just in general?"

She frowned in annoyance, contentment on hiatus. "Does everything I do bother you?"

"More so than most," he replied honestly. It was displeased, as always, but to Hermione the tone sounded… begrudging?

"I was doing my best to be quiet," she continued, her voice stern in an attempt to give strength to the weakness of her jaw. "I would have been done and back in my chambers in only a matter of minutes, and you would have had nothing more to protest."

"You are mistaken. Your sneezes are echoing all the way into the corridors of the upper floors."

"That _cannot_ be true."

"Would you like to present a counterargument with _your_ pair of wolfish ears?"

"Did you really come all the way into the library just to make your aggravation known?" she asked, turning the direction of their conversation before another argument could be had. "I was under the assumption that you treasure your solitude. Do you not prefer to be alone at this time of the night?"

"I'm afraid that it's becoming more and more difficult to do so," he said softly, and Hermione had to strain her ears over the rumbling of nearing thunderclouds to hear.

"What do you mean?" she nearly whispered, finding herself fascinated by the endless riddles he unknowingly proposed to her, and by the halting effect of the azure lightning flashes over the slate of his far-gone eyes.

"If you stay here," he said after a long pause. "You're only going to get yourself sick. You should go back to bed." But he seemed dissatisfied, and so he added, "If you'd like to continue lacking good sense, you should do so in the comforts of your own room."

"I can't sleep," she explained softly, the words bubbling forth from her lips before she was any the wiser.

He looked at her with unreadable eyes, and for a moment, Hermione forgot where she was entirely, locked in the uniqueness of the color—_they're silver, just like his weakness, but they can't be real, I wonder what color they were before, when he was_—until another flash of lightning pierced the illusion.

"You're impossible, Granger," he said ineffably.

"Can't you?" she questioned, feeling her intuition leading her toward an indefinable victory.

With an unknown feeling of warmth spreading through her, she realized that she was starting catch on… despite all of the magic and curses and lost years, the Prince _still _wasn't used to not having things go his way, and she was starting to learn what he didn't respond to very well… and what made him forget to fight her.

_Well?_ She wanted to ask, but forced down her impatience. He turned toward the window again with a roll of his eyes, and a knowing smile graced Hermione's lips.

"I see."

"There isn't anything _to_ see."

Hermione nodded with a quiet breath of laughter, and his Majesty crossed his arms in open irritation. "Forgive me, your highness," she said sincerely, but she knew that he wouldn't trust her not to laugh again while her smile was still in place. "I think I'd really like to stay here and read for a little while longer, if that is all right with you."

"Do as you please, Granger," he muttered, already turning to leave. "You'll probably do so, anyway."

"I was… I was hoping you might stay."

He paused.

"Not for much longer, of course," she quickly added. "If, that is, you would be willing to grant me such a favor at all."

"Why?" he asked, expression hidden, voice indecipherable.

"Why not?" she countered gently, suddenly nervous, and though hidden, she could already see a thousand reasons circulating in his swirling grey eyes.

He gave no answer. With an irrational feeling of loss, Hermione nodded in understanding and returned her gaze back to the book. She was trying to ignore the rather silly part of her that had blindly, stupidly hoped for some inexplicable reason that _someone_ would stay with her, even if it were him, when a swift moment from the corner of her eyes caught her breath.

Hermione tried to keep her head down as she peered across the long seat. There, sitting on the far end of the other side, was his majesty… elbow rested on the sill, and determinedly looking away from her and into the rain. Another small smile widened her lips, but this time, she held her tongue and decided to enjoy her small triumph—and company—in silence.

"Don't get used to this," he warned in clipped tones. Hermione could almost hear the cascade of countless unspoken meanings to his words—_a never-ending enigma—_but she would not try to decipher them tonight. She shook her head gently in recognition, soft smile persisting, and let her eyes drift downward to the letters on the page. As the sounds of the rainfall washed over her, Hermione read on… a peculiar, but not unwelcome, feeling of contentment settling within her.

* * *

.

.

.

When Hermione awoke the next morning, she was warm beneath the covers of her too-large bed, and lost on the fringes of a dream she couldn't remember.

.

.

.

.

.

* * *

**End Note:** Anyone have an idea about Lupin's riddle? :) Same goes for if anybody caught how the title played different roles in various portions of the chapter. I always wonder if people catch on when the title have double entendres or underlying themes and such. Send me your guesses and predictions! Those are my favorite parts of any review. :)

Also, I'm trying my best to keep this from becoming too trite... I mean, I _want_ a little cliché (it's based off of a Disney plot, is it not?), but I hope you're still finding some of its elements original enough to help achieve a balance. Please let me know how you think I'm doing!

Also! If you would like a **gift!fic** from me, head over to my LiveJournal at **http:/therentyoupay [dot] livejournal [dot] com** to leave a prompt on my Holiday Requests post. I'm going to need some quick writing inspiration, so please feel free to leave as many as you would like. It shouldn't be too hard to find as it's the most recent non-friends-locked entry!


	19. The Lucky Ones

******Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes**: _2/4/12._ Oh my gosh. I started a new job as well as a new semester, and la dee dah, you don't really want to read about excuses, but believe me, I WAS JUST SO BUSY.

Also, I've gotten to the point in planning for this story where it's like, "oh my gosh, and then after _this—_which probably won't be until two or so chapters from now, I can add in _that_, but not until before I have _this _happen, and OH, THIS NEEDS TO BE—" and I must admit that I had a bit of a harder time focusing solely on this chapter. However, I have decided to make the chapters much, much shorter (_again_) because (1) many of my faithful reviewers have noted their appreciation for the quicker reads and (2) it may actually allow me to post on a regular basis. Here's hoping, right?

* * *

**The Lucky Ones**

* * *

_I've been watching your world from afar,  
I've been trying to be where you are,  
And I've been secretly falling apart, unseen.  
To me, you're strange and you're beautiful._

"Strange & Beautiful (I'll Put A Spell On You)" - **Aqualung**

* * *

The only thing left to do was feed the chickens.

"Stupid animals," Ron muttered as he haphazardly tossed the feed about the coop, literally throwing all sense of careful placement to the wind as the hens clucked madly about his heels. "Will you just wait _one_ damn minute—I was already—for the love of—"

.

.

.

."_Contacting you was only the first step." _

_Ron cautiously watched the strange girl in the talking mirror, feeling no less uneasy. He considered the idea of reneging on their bargain, of pretending it never happened and rushing off into the forest after Hermione as he'd intended to do less than a half hour before this girl had shown up and thrown him into chaos, but... _

"_Now that we've established this partnership, things will quickly start falling into place... we just need to wait for the signal to set everything in motion."_

_._

_._

_.  
_

Frustrated, he tossed the bag to the ground and fled the little house in the midst of scuffle, making note to buy another bag of feed the next morning at the market. He wasn't entirely sure where he was going to get the money since he still needed to buy more supplies to finish his own chores at the Burrow, but as the Weasleys didn't feel comfortable leaving Hermione's house alone for any period of time now... well, he'd just have to call in a favor with Hagrid.

.

.

"_What kind of signal?" he asked._

_._

_.  
_

Ron shook his head irritably, trying to dispel the persistent memories of his first encounter with Pansy. Despite the weeks that had passed, he felt no closer to finding Hermione again than since the first day Pansy arrived... Though it wasn't for lack of updates; Pansy showed up almost every blasted day. Shrugging off his heavy winter layers with impatient fingers, Ron stomped his boots at the threshold of Hermione's humble home and made a beeline to the sitting room, to where he'd moved Hermione's only mirror.

.

.

.

"_Where is she? How do you know where she is? Why can't I just go after her now?"_

"_There are... complications."_

_._

_._

_.  
_

Pansy, of course, could never be trusted to be present when he actually needed an answer; she was only good at showing up when he least wanted to remember why she was there.

Glaring at the empty mirror for but a moment more, Ron went about stroking up a fire to warm the room. He knew she'd come later, whenever she was done doing whatever it was that she supposedly did. For a split second, Ron wondered if she secretly had a long list of other gullible fools she tormented regularly through trick mirrors. A bark of incredulous laughter escaped him immediately—_she could never be that clever—_but all that followed was a sour mood, for she had still not appeared, even after dusk.

.

.

.

."_Like the magic behind the mirror, there is much that I cannot tell you... not yet. All that you must know for now is that Hermione Granger is safe, and that I am going to help you find her again."_

"_Why?"_

"_Let us just say that Hermione Granger has been... mistaken for someone else. And it is for this reason that we must tread lightly while carrying out our plan. If you want my assistance... if you want to see her again... you must follow _my_ lead."_

"_And if I don't?"_

_Her eyes grew cold, and Ron knew in that moment that despite his misgivings regarding the magic and the mirror enchantment, _this _sense of foreboding was no trick... no illusion._

"_The Prince will follow... and he won't rest until he's gotten her back."_

_._

_.  
_

_Ron's world shifted. _

_._

_._

_.  
_

"_...Prince?"_

_._

_._

_.  
_

When Pansy finally arrived in the awkwardly located mirror, Ron was already asleep on the couch, tucked among all of the extra blankets Mrs. Weasley could jam into his abused pack. Disheveled hair a stark orange in the light of the fire and limbs contorted at every which angle, Pansy almost didn't notice the bright red book lying astray over the hideously brown sweater at his chest.

With a roll of her eyes solely for her benefit, Pansy loudly rapped her knuckles against the glass. Keeping her stern eyes trained on the freckled face, she drawled in a rather bored tone, "Honestly, Ginger, if I continue to find myself waiting each and every time I arrive, I might one day decide to not come back at all."

"Bollocks," Ron muttered through barely moving lips; he was obviously not yet fully awake. "You wouldn't give up bothering me everyday; it's how you get your stupid kicks."

Pretty face sliding into an ugly sneer, Pansy rapped the glass even harder. When the farmhand showed no further sign of alertness, Pansy considered wasting her breath to screech out a lovely mid-evening wake-up call, but considered against it. She pounded her knuckles against the glass hard enough to make his dozing self wince, and waited.

"Damn, Pansy," he griped, rubbing a hand over his weary face. "You didn't need to try cracking the glass."

"I only regret that it was not your skull; I'm sure that would have been much more efficient."

"Bloody pleasant as always, you are."

"And still so alert, I see."

"Whatever. Let's just get on with it, shall we?"

"Very well," Pansy swallowed her annoyance, nodding slowly with measured control as she plastered a detached sense of professionalism over her features. "Your instructions have not changed. There is currently nothing to report. Should anything of significance happen, I'll alert you at the first sign of change." And with that, she turned to leave.

"Wait!" Ron called out, his hand mid-air in his haste to delay her. "That can't be all of it! What about my questions?"

A delicate brow rose. "What questions could you have?"

"How is she doing?"

"She's well."

"That's it? That's all you're going to say?"

"She's been captured under a mistaken identity and is being held hostage in a foreign castle, Ginger; there isn't much else to say."

"Dammit, Pansy," he spat. "I'm serious. Is she healthy? Is she scared? Has she asked for any of us lately?"

"I don't see what difference it would make if she did or did not ask for you—it's not like it will allow you to see each other any sooner," she bit out, turning away from him. "I'm already putting myself on the line for this enough as it is; I'd appreciate it if you didn't make my risks any deeper by bombarding me with pointless questions."

"_Bombarding_? Whoah... Look, Princess," Ron held up a finger, a steam engine of thought already screeching loudly at the departure platform in his mind, when he saw a strange expression suddenly pass over her features, and in spite of himself, he was intrigued. "It really irritates you when I call you that, doesn't it?"

"_You _irritate me."

"But that word… you hate that name especially."

"No more than any other sound that leaves your wretched mouth."

"You brought this upon yourself!"

"I did no such thing."

"You did. Now what is it about that word that bothers you so much? Am I sensing some issues with insecurity?"

"Oh, so you noticed an aversive reaction to one ridiculous moniker, and now you're _perceptive_, are you? Fine then, I can play, too; you tell me: what is it about that red book that bothers _you_ so much?"

While she had only meant it as a condescending retort, a basic evasive tactic she had mastered by age four, she had instead inadvertently answered his question, after all.

The uneasy pause that followed had Ron's stomach tightening in unnatural ways and had the walls of his mouth turning to cotton. At his blank stare, Pansy realized what she'd said, but it was too late; he could practically see the desire in her eyes to snatch the words back out of the air, and the sudden shift in the layers of tension enveloped every part of him.

"This... Prince that you mentioned before," Ron spoke around the sudden cotton in his mouth. "You... you fancy him, don't you?"

His voice broke her from the trance she had fallen into, and the return to the present was clearly etched into the tightening lines of her mouth and eyes.

"You don't know the first thing about me, Ginger."

Ron's brows rose, a mark of half-surprise, half-challenge. "I'll admit it was a long-shot... even if your reaction now is only confirming my suspicions with every breath. But why not? I'll allow the benefit of the doubt... What I _do _ know for certain, however, is that you're bored," Ron countered, crossing his arms and gaining confidence apart from the tightness coiling in his stomach. "Plan or no plan, if you had better things to do than follow me around all day, you sure as hell wouldn't be here right now."

He could see her seething behind the glass, and he congratulated himself on having found a bit of leverage. The wheels in her head were obviously turning, however, and he knew he'd have to prepare another counterattack. The moment he saw her dreaded half-smirk, victorious without yet having started the battle, Ron knew he was in trouble.

"All right, then," she announced. "You still want to play? I can tell you that I _may_ occasionally find myself without better entertainment than your incompetence, but I still know so much more about you than you realize."

"Yeah, because you've got plenty of time to be nosy," he interrupted uncomfortably.

"And it's been painfully obvious to me," she ignored him with glee. "Just how desperate you are to get Hermione Granger back."

"Yeah," he said defiantly, rising to the challenge. "So? We've been friends since childhood."

"_Ah,_" she breathed, and her voice was honey. "And that's the problem, isn't it? I have had a sneaking suspicion of my own, Ginger, and I suppose now is as good an opportunity as any to test my theory. Are you, or are you not, madly in love with Hermione Granger?"

"That's not—you don't—"

"Oh, I had such suspicions from the very beginning, but seeing you holed up in this home of hers with that red book for ages only confirmed _another_ layer of my suppositions. That red book—it's hers, isn't it? It certainly must have been special to her, what with all of the sniveling you've been doing over the pages these last few weeks."

"All right, _Princess_," he spat. "Drop it. You've had your fair share tonight."

"Tell me, Ginger... I'm undoubtedly curious. Just what _is_ the nature of your relationship with Hermione Granger?"

"That's enough, Pansy."

"But is it? It's obvious you want more... But does she?"

"What?" he snapped, but the heat that flooded his face and neck seemingly choked the remaining words from his throat. _What do you know? What did she tell you?"_

"And there we have our answer."

"And I have mine," he spat after having regained a measure of composure. "Despite any of your judgments or presumptions or the dilemma at hand, it's becoming clear to _me_ that I'm still lucky, when compared to you."

Pansy's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"I don't care to dig out how much you really know... but I assume you know enough to realize that although Hermione may have not yet given me a direct answer, _I_, at least, have a chance. _I_, at least, can hope... Of course, I know next to nothing about your circumstances... but a servant and a Prince? Can I really confidently say the same for you?"

He expected a spitting remark, an indignant shriek, anything of her usual arsenal, but all Ron saw was a long, calculating stare. As the uncomfortable silence grew, Ron became more restless. After all, he was a simple man who could appreciate the connection of a fist into an opponent's jaw, and he was startled to think that he had sunk so low as to make such a spiteful comment. Crossing his arms defensively, he could not bring himself to apologize; he did, however, promise to better keep himself in check in the future.

He already had plenty of enemies. When he really thought about it reasonably, he knew that he didn't want to make Pansy into one of them.

Just as he was about to break his self-made promise of not apologizing, Pansy released a scoff and fixed him with a rather pitying glare.

"I see," she said icily. "I can assure you: I won't jeopardize any opportunity of yours, as long as you don't jeer at mine."

He wasn't sure what she meant, but he wasn't given a moment to voice his confusion; after a quick nod that she would see him on the morrow, and after one last glance at the red book laid astray behind him, she was gone.

* * *

"So you really can't remember?"

"Unfortunately... no."

Hermione gazed in wondrous appreciation at the beginnings of the glowing sunset through the tinted glass of the beautiful botanical garden, and wished that she could have given Neville a different answer.

"When I first woke up, I barely realized that I'd had the dream at all... especially since I remembered the second one so much more clearly: a world in which Midas and Auror talk as acquaintances—I mean, just _imagine_!" She shook her head, laughing slightly at her own expense. "I just really feel as if the first dream was the important one... and it bothers me that I haven't a clue as to what it was about."

"And you weren't even drinking, Hermione!" Blaise exclaimed from some leafy patch another aisle over. "Just imagine how glorious your dreams could have been, had you shared in our enjoyment!"

But his words were lost on deaf ears. "And this one?" Hermione begged her small guide for more information, pointing at a brightly-colored flower and nearly overturning Neville in her excitement. "What's this one?"

"Blimey," Blaise whispered under his breath, his eyes drooping miserably as Neville proceeded to enlighten Hermione to yet another plant-whats-it. Dean wasn't in favor of his wanking, but it wasn't exactly as if he could disagree; any more plant species or soil composition lectures and he'd be gnawing off his own splinters just to make it stop.

"You know," Blaise called loudly, trying to break the monotony and to perhaps lessen some of Neville's giddiness. _An excited Longbottom is a dangerous Longbottom, after all, _thought Dean. "All this talk of titles and capitalization has inspired me to name our small social circle. What say you all to calling ourselves that which will allow us the most recognition?"

"Which would be...?"

"The Blaise Brigade, of course."

"No."

"You didn't even give it a chance!"

"Blaise," he griped, and Hermione was momentarily distracted by the sight they made, lazily lounging about in various pots and garden patches. "You were intolerable this morning—"

"I already said that I would _not_ apologize for my post-drink morning perkiness."

"And you're just as intolerable now."

"You know what would make me less intolerable?" Blaise began suggestively.

"A pit of fire?"

"No, my good chap—another round tonight!"

"Blaise," Hermione's stern voice rang clearly across the garden as Neville continued to snip away at stray leaves. "Do you honestly see no better use of your time?"

"I am an enchanted ornament in a nearly-haunted castle!" he cried. "Drinking hardly seems inappropriate for the occasion."

"I just don't understand your... _obsession_ with it," she sighed impatiently, snipping away at the leaves of a shrub according to Neville's instruction.

"Obsession!" Blaise exclaimed, indignant and mortified. "Why, Hermione! I'm shocked. Is this truly your opinion of me? I assure you, my dear, that this is not the appearance of alcoholism, but of hedonism!"

"Are they not both vices?" she pointed out reasonably.

"A question of debauchery depends on many things, my good Hermione, all of which may draw the line between subsistence and depravity."

"Including the debaucher in question," Dean muttered.

"So," Blaise began again, and with importance. "For example: you and your friends do not see fit to drink—"

"_I_ do not drink," Hermione countered. "My friends do on occasion, although… some might do so more than others."

Dean and Blaise exchanged a look. "Your friends?" Dean asked, interest clearly piqued. _It's not often that she brings up the topic of her home life._

And by often, Dean actually meant _never_.

"Well, any friend of Hermione's ought to be a good fellow... and the alcohol only confirms it! Tell us about them!" Blaise cheerfully demanded, balancing his tone between _pushy _and _politely invasive._ "Who are they?"

"Well, there's Harry and... Ron, and his sister."

"Splendid! Well, how 'bout that Harry fellow?"

She shrugged. "Occasionally."

"And that Ron bloke?"

"… a little more frequently."

"Oh-ho!" Blaise cheered. "And what of his sister? What is her name?"

"Ginny? Well, I suppose she can hold her own, but she and I really don't engage in—"

"Ginny?" Dean echoed. "Does she have a weakness for gin?"

"What?" Hermione blinked. "No?"

"So this Ginny… _doesn't_ like gin?" Blaise tried to clarify.

"No!" Hermione huffed. "Her name is _Ginerva_. We call her Ginny."

"So… no one likes gin?"

Hermione blinked again. "Actually, her brother is rather fond of gin."

"The Ron fellow?"

"Yes," she said ineffably.

"But not Ginny herself?" Dean repeated.

"_No_."

"Seriously!" the candlestick cried. "How can a woman who goes by the name of Ginny not like gin?"

"_Blaise_."

"Fine, fine. This confusion has made me lose my point entirely. You hardly drink… And you don't gamble… What do you _do_? I mean. Honestly."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "There are plenty of other things to occupy my thoughts," she said quietly, and Dean noticed with dismay that the snipping of her trimming scissors had lulled to only an occasional attempt. Was she thinking of all of the things that she had lost? Those whom she missed?

"I know my thoughts are often full of memories," Dean said somberly, noting the way Hermione's hand stilled. "I think that we are as happy as we can allow ourselves to be, but there is no doubt that our cover of cheerfulness often shrouds many deeper layers of yearning."

Hermione didn't quite know what to say to that, so she paused her trimming entirely to lend him a respectful ear. A heaviness had settled upon them, and Hermione was startled to realize once again through all of her worries and tragedies and concerns, just how lucky she still was, and how selfish she could be.

"I miss running the most, I think," said Neville softly, his eyes fixated on the greenness around him. "But some days it's hard to decide."

"It's art for me," said Dean. "Though I doubt there is any surprise there. I've tried since... but it's not the same, for many reasons."

There were plenty of things that Blaise often mourned, but he was not the type to voice them. Alarmed at the complete turn this evening had taken, and wanting to break the tension, he smiled and casually claimed:

"I can think of a whole other _list_ of things I'd like to do... If you understand my meaning."

Having been drawn in by the undeniable intensity of the conversation, Hermione was caught completely off guard by this rather coarse suggestion, and hastily resumed her trimming duties to stave off an embarrassing blush.

"No need to go any further, Blaise," Dean drawled, at once annoyed by his insensitive ways, and grateful for the alleviation from the tension. "We'd like to keep Longbottom's virtue intact, thank you."

"Oh, watch out for that area, Hermione," Neville called to her when she came across a new patch of shrubbery. It'd become clear that more distance was needed between them in order to manage the heat in her cheeks, and she'd thus slid farther down the aisle. "That's Nagini's hibernation spot."

"Come again?"

"Nagini is our resident grass snake—she's been around for ages."

"You have a pet snake in this botanical garden?" she asked, somewhat alarmed and mostly intrigued.

"Ha! Trust me when I tell you this: if anything, we're _her_ pets... she only lets us in here because we bring her mice treats! Just wait until springtime—you'll see what I mean."

_Springtime._

Hermione's heart plummeted deep into her core, and she forced her hand to remain steady in its duties.

She intended to be gone _long_ before the arrival of spring.

With a sudden eagerness to finish her work in the garden early, Hermione reminded herself that she still needed to find an accurate almanac in order to determine the precise time that would most easily allow her to escape. In her nightly pondering, a full moon had naturally presented the best advantage due to its obvious source of light, but from what Hermione had gathered, a full moon had already passed during the raging storms just a little less than a week ago. She had not noticed any outward differences in the Prince's strength or manner, and it was with great hope and little evidence that she would work under the assumption that _this_ tenet of werewolf lore would prove untrue. However, even if such a frightening complication were not a concern, it would still be almost a month before Hermione had any real opportunity to move forward with her plan.

_Just how much time have I spent here already?_

The point, she decided with a final snip, was that she would _not_ be there for much longer.

Her gaze unconsciously fell toward the playful bickering of her welcoming, juvenile, ridiculous, _caring _companions, and for not the first time since her growing attachment began, she realized that she was quickly losing sight of what mattered most.

She would _not_ be there for much longer, and so she excused herself from her acquaintances with a smile so cheerfully false that she feared she may have cracked her expression, and she fled to her room to think.

* * *

But the next day brought on even more challenges, and Hermione's mind was so often thrown in so many directions all at once that she hardly knew where to begin. She had woken that morning with the solid determination to start distancing herself from the inhabitants of the castle for all of their sakes, and to instead focus more on solving the curse when she couldn't easily consider her escape, but by breakfast she was already feeling just as warm and content—and as very, very _confused_—as she had the day before.

By lunchtime, Hermione was struggling to keep herself engaged in the quest for research at the library, and found herself distracted more often than not by the ever-alluring camaraderie of her companions. By the time she found herself strolling along one of the larger balconies on the upper floors with his majesty later that afternoon, many other curious thoughts had already invaded the forefront of her mind.

"Please, your highness," she mocked without true malice. "What would you do if not for me? Who would you torment?"

"Well, watching the servants' suffer _was_ gratifying for ages." He sent her a knowing look as she determinedly ignored his obvious taunt; it was a sight to see her squirm, and he vaguely wondered how she had not yet learned to control her temper when she so obviously knew his design. He chuckled under his breath, enjoying the way her shoulders stiffened in resolve, before her question came back to him.

If it were not for her?

He frowned, and Granger seemed to notice the change in the air immediately. As she half-turned toward him, still wary, suddenly curious, Draco clarified, "But in all seriousness?"

Now there was a dangerous turn of thought. If not for her… If not for her, there wouldn't be any chance at all. Without any sort of lead or hope of fulfilling the prophecy, he would have been counting down the days until he transformed completely.

He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the images. With a deep breath, he considered the question further, wanting without explicable reason to answer it seriously; he suddenly _needed_ to know... what would he have been doing in this precise moment, had none of this wretched curse came about? Such painful pondering over the last three years had always brought him to his knees, and had invited new gashes and streaks across bark and stone, but now... If he thought past all of it, all the way back to the beginning… if he had never transformed... If he had never been betrayed by—by _that._..

If his parents were still alive?

"I would have already married a princess," he said thoughtfully, as bitter memories laced with irony resurfaced. Hermione glanced up at his profile curiously.

"That answer seems... appropriate," Hermione allowed, and Draco rolled his eyes at her attempt at tact.

"It would have been arranged, obviously, just as my parents' marriage had been. It would have been the most politically advantageous engagement conceivable, and to the royal with the largest dowry and cleanest reputation. I would have had no choice in the matter."

"I see," she said quietly, and her voice was lined with awkward strain. Draco glanced to her speculatively, and wondered at how quickly she'd obviously grown uncomfortable. While it was so like Granger to switch her emotions at the drop of the hat, he couldn't entirely understand the cause of her discomfort now. With an amused huff at her predictable unpredictability, he decided to turn the conversation down a lighter path.

"So naturally, in accordance with my duty to my kingdom, I would have looked to her as an alternative source of entertainment." Reflexively, he pegged her with a mocking smile. "Aren't I lucky to have you instead?"

He watched as she pondered the stone beneath her fingertips, ignoring his biting sarcasm, and was surprised by her once more. "And did many of the princesses have... suitable reputations?"

* * *

Draco's scoff sounded suspiciously like a snort, which Hermione hardly considered gentlemanly behavior, let alone princely. "I wouldn't know. Never had the chance to get too far into courtship, remember?" He asked with nonchalance, but she could sense the underlying bitterness. What an interesting conflict it was, Hermione decided... To want so desperately a life that was once his, despite the obvious resentment and restrictions with which it came. "Besides," Draco suddenly let out a bark of laughter, still sharp. "They were far more often worried about _mine_."

Hermione's eyes widened marginally. _Definitely not gentlemanly conversation! _She swallowed her sudden embarrassment and turned to him, only to find that he was watching her bemusedly with something akin to mockery in his eyes. "And just what is so funny?" She asked defensively.

"My, my, Granger," he said as he released a shaky breath of what sounded like—_Sadistic!_—laughter. "Am I making you uncomfortable?" He seemed genuinely amused, and Hermione tried to pretend with all her might that her cheeks _weren't _actually being intruded by an unwelcome blush.

"No," she lied hotly, keeping her voice level and her chin high. "You're not the first man with an overactive ego to brag about his conquests, _your majesty_."

Actually, Blaise was, but he didn't need to know that.

"Though might I say that it certainly doesn't seem very much like _prince_-like behavior."

"You haven't met many princes then."

"Can't say I have," Hermione raised a thin brow critically, her gaze lingering on his eyes. _Silver_. "Sometimes I question whether or not I have actually met any at all."

Draco only smiled a bitter smile, his eyes hardening. How often had she seen that look pass over his features? And here she thought that she was finally learning how to control herself around him, gaining a better hold on how to handle him; she should know better than to let him rile her up after all this time. _But here I still am! _ She thought disapprovingly. _Hermione, why don't you just _ignore_ his rascal behavior like you keep promising yourself to do and—_

"Sorry, Granger," he said dryly. Hermione was momentarily shocked to have heard something that sounded suspiciously like the word _sorry_ from his mouth, but his sardonic tone meant that her surprise was short-lived. "I know my current state is not exactly the best representation of a monarch, but as I'm about the closest thing around here that you can get to royalty, what you see is what you get."

* * *

But then Draco glanced at his paws on the railing, and his eyes narrowed.

What was it in actuality that she saw? What anyone saw?

_A monster, _he thought.

And just as Draco had already begun his rapid descent back within himself—images of bloodied, broken bodies just itching to break through the surface—Hermione's incredulous laughter broke through.

"You can't be serious!" She exclaimed, laughing at him in disbelief. "What you see is what you get? Excuse me, your majesty, but _please: _nobody would have any warning, visible or otherwise, about what they were _getting _with you—you're more difficult to read than a Latin dictionary!"

"Latin? Dictionaries?" Draco vaguely wondered if he'd missed something, and turned to her in open, impatient confusion. He hadn't heard everything of what she'd said, but he had the sneaking suspicion that somewhere within was a jab at his character. "Where did that come from? Could you have possibly picked any two less interesting items? Do you even _know _Latin?"

"Oh, _never mind_ that, it was just an analogy."

"Could you pick one train of thought and stick to it? I'm getting dizzy from trying to keep up with your peasant-speak."

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," she countered, ignoring his barb and looking far too proud of herself. "If you think _I'm _difficult to follow, then we may have a problem, because I am very clear about what goes on in my mind—"

"—often too much so."

"But _you_? You're even more difficult to interpret." Hermione stared at him with laughing eyes, but her tone playfully filled with pity. "If anything, I think I saved this mystery princess—who may or may not have had a reputation as questionable as you claim yours to have been—"

"—_claim?"_

_"—_an undeniable number of headaches, don't you?"

"How noble of you, Granger, to allow _us _to take the brunt of the suffering instead."

"It's in my nature," she quipped, enjoying the way that the way his shoulders hunched in annoyance. "Just like it's in your nature to say one thing, but to mean something else entirely... just like any true figure in power."

"I beg your pardon?" He asked, as an impatient brow lifted. He had already been retreating back within the far corners of his mind once again, but she was just so damn _distracting_.

"Oh, certainly, you act like a devious, foul-mouthed, inconsiderate, rude, sadistic—"

"—you've made your point."

"—impossible, stuck-up _snob_... But you're really not _as_ awful as you seem so intent on projecting."

"Really," Draco said slowly. "What a moving approbation, Granger. I'm absolutely touched. Care to explain how you came to that conclusion?"

"Well... I'm still alive, for one," she said.

"Foolproof."

"Seriously, your highness, in all honesty, although you're quite intolerable, there's obviously more to you. You just seem hell-bent on ensuring that no one decipher any of it, which isn't—"

"Granger, if you say anything about _not judging a book by its cover_, I may just have to throw you off this balcony."

She glared, but couldn't seem to bring herself to lace it with quite as much fire as before. "No, your majesty, I was _not _going to mention any phrase of the kind before you interrupted—and _now_ who's the one bringing up the topic of books?" Draco rolled his eyes, but let her continue. "I was going to say that it isn't fair, you know, for anyone who may find themselves sprung upon you, like this hypothetical princess would have been."

_Or how I was_, Draco heard the unspoken thought as a moderately awkward moment of silence passed between them.

"After all, there's really no way to tell what's coming next."

"Yet another stirring commendation. Should the opportunity ever have arisen in the past, I would have invited you to write recommendations of my character; I'm sure all the ladies across the country would have been vying for my hand."

"I am sure you were quite the catch," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes, and shook her head in skeptical, half-hearted admission.

Draco considered the lost strands of blond, the pale skin and the aristocratic features... At age fourteen, he had been greedily anticipating another growth spurt—_Now isn't that ironic?_—and the loss of some of the roundness of his face by his next birthday. If he had only known... Now the only part of him that remained true was the color of his eyes. But then again, even those had darkened over time.

_I would have been, _Draco thought sourly.

He glanced at the girl from the corner of his eye, watching as she watched the trees sway soothingly in the breeze. Would she have been drawn to him like all the others—the _countless _others, his mind mourned—had they met while he was a man instead of a monster? What would she have seen when she saw his true face? In the little time that he had known her, he'd come to learn that appearances did not easily influence her, nor did they deceive her... Even if her own appearance didn't necessarily matter to her, he thought with a dubious look at her wild hair, she was still a woman, was she not?

"You're moping again, your highness," she teased, but he could tell that she was ready to return to her library; they had already been out here for much longer than he had originally intended. "No princess—imaginary or otherwise—is going to be fighting for the hand of a brooding sourpuss."

_A woman_, Draco conceded. _But only barely_.

"I suppose I could follow your lead and win the hearts of all the dashing young farmers by being _knowledgeable_ about useless information and talking unnecessarily about Latin, then? I'm sure you must have all the good fortune in the village," he said, though his tone implied anything but.

Hermione's cheeks burned as the memory of Ron's hopeful proposal came crashing through her mind. Before she could allow herself to be caught and teased mercilessly by his highness _again_, she quickly turned to the other side. "Well, I can't make you any promises, your majesty," she said as she started orienting herself toward the door. "But I'm sure if you put your best effort forth and follow my lead exactly, you're bound to end up with someone who will suit your tastes."

He looked at her, surprised at her sudden rush to depart. _I hit a nerve then?_ Draco pondered, amused by her obviously growing discomfort. _If only she knew who I was supposedly _bound_ to end up with_... _I suppose that, in a way, this isn't so different than an arranged marriage. The advantages are more "animalistic self-preservation" than "political strategy," and the bloodline is not by any means... ideal, but the union of two individuals who might have otherwise never even laid eyes on each other? _

He eyed the young girl who was eyeing him warily, obviously hoping to hear his dismissal soon. He wondered if the conversation he might have had with _the fiancé that never was_ would have been anything like what he'd experienced with Granger.

"Well?_"_ Hermione's snipped, and it was only then that he realized he had been staring.

_No_, he thought grimly, as he looked to the forest. _Absolutely not_.

And for some reason, his long-forgotten vanity desired that she _should_ see him, that she should see his true face. Would little miss know-it-all be able to resist? Be too haughty and proud to deny the undeniable truth of his allure? He would break the spell, if only just to see her face when she finally gazed upon _his_.

And with that, an authentic smirk broke out over Draco's features. Hermione shifted, suddenly on alert for any signs of attack; a smirk signified imminent verbal danger, and this look of smugness—like he knew a delicious secret that he would never tell—indicated that she had definitely dropped into deeper water. But he surprised her.

"Very well, then," he said with unhidden amusement. "Off to the library, or wherever it is that you go. You may leave."

"You see," she whispered, gaping openly at him. She gladly took her leave to the door, shaking her head. "More difficult to read than a Latin dictionary."

"And for the record," Draco tossed over his shoulder with that unyielding smirk. "I happen to _enjoy_ Latin dictionaries."

Hermione turned to him slightly as she paused in the frame. With a slight bow of her head in parting, she smirked slightly, herself. "I never said I didn't, your majesty."

And as she disappeared from his view, Draco realized that he didn't quite know what to make of that.

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* * *

**End Note: ** Oh man. Any thoughts about the song choice? :) Predictions for what's up next? Also, there will be more Snape and McGonagall coming up in the next chapter—they were supposed to have a larger role in this one, but it was already growing too long and I've promised myself that I'm going to keep them shorter.

Additionally, many of you have noticed how things are already starting to thread themselves together, but you should be prepared: things are winding up now, but once we pass a certain precipice, _chaos_ is going to be unleashed.

(AND I CANNOT WAIT.)

Please review! :)


	20. Secret Keeper

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic.

**Author's Notes**: _3/4/12._ An update one month later, on the dot! On the bright side, Chapter 21 and 22 are both at least 50% done. I'm going to go back now and clean up some of the earlier chapters (Irene sent me beta'd versions of all of the chapters currently published, and she even redid the ones she beta'd six years ago), but I'm really excited for the next chapter, so hopefully the update will still be in under a month.

I'm trying my best to keep the chapters short, but sometimes you just _really_ need to have certain things mentioned at certain times to help with the flow, and to also help line up the dominoes for later, so-to-speak. I'm aiming for about 8,000-10,000 words per chapter, so please forgive!

Also, **magic_knickers** on LiveJournal made a lovely banner for this story. :D Thank you! It's on my LJ.

* * *

**Secret-Keeper**

* * *

_No, it's not meant to be like this.  
Not what I planned at all.  
I don't want to feel like this.  
So that makes it all your fault._

"The Walk" – **Imogen Heap**

* * *

"Yet another useless reminder," the young Master sniped the next morning, his irritation echoing down the dark, empty corridors. "If you're going to lecture, at least make it worth my while."

McGonagall swallowed hard, feeling the itchy fibers of the fabric scratch what was once her throat. Over the years of her servitude, she had grown accustomed to looking past the standoffish exterior, through the characteristic abrasiveness, and under the emotional scars from the generations of cruelty that had molded him into an impenetrable wall of cold aloofness, all to see the anxiety and desperation of a young man beneath... but at times he could certainly make it difficult.

Like now.

"Sire, this is serious." Snape scolded, his brow dipping dangerously low.

"Your majesty, one quite often literally _falls_ in love... as in, unexpectedly," McGonagall continued onward. "Since our case involves a rather... premeditated sort of connection, we are facing other challenges."

"We can no longer skirt the issue. Sire, exactly what topics have you discussed with her?"

"This is nonsense," Draco muttered, shifting uncomfortably.

"This is _important_. Now tell me—Art? Interests? Literature? Royal customs? I suppose it would be too much to hope for a hint of personal disclosure."

The responding glare stopped the cauldron's presumption its tracks, but the Master still made some effort to answer, regardless. "I... can't recall anything in particular."

"You're not serious!" McGonagall exclaimed, aghast. "What on earth have you been doing all this time?"

"Honestly, Sire, this is no time to be withholding information as simple as this."

"I _told_ you I can't recall," Draco repeated scornfully. "Each topic is mindless, though it hardly matters because we never dwell on any one subject for very long, and then we're onto some other equally irrelevant topic before either of us are any the wiser. We've discussed everything from multilingualism to shrubbery."

"_Shrubbery_!"

"And the animal kingdom," he added as an afterthought.

"The merits of livestock?" Snape surmised, in a tone that was probably the closest he had ever come to sounding hopeful. "The various creatures you observed while on the voyages overseas during your youth, perhaps?"

"She compared my demeanor to that of a ferret's."

"Heaven help us," McGonagall breathed.

"Are there any common trends to your conversations?" Snape asked quickly, trudging forward.

"The barbs are growing sharper," the Master shrugged.

"What have you learned of her interests?" the cauldron persevered, his frustration mounting. "She is an avid reader, is she not?" He was answered by a rather uncharacteristic snort.

"Indeed... If one can reasonably consider any dictionary to be proper reading material."

"Has she any _other_ preferences?" McGonagall asked, no longer attempting to hide her irritation as she blinked through the confusion.

"Latin, naturally."

"Your highness, I am being serious!"

"As am I, I assure you."

"Sire, time is of the essence—we have but three full moons after your seventeenth birthday—"

"Just three moon cycles!" McGonagall urged.

"Just three months," Snape reiterated sternly. "And we are already nearing the completion of the first. Now enough of this absurdity—it is time to move our plans onto the next step. What options have we for strengthening the bond?"

"I think that dining together is still out of the question," McGonagall looked at his tall form disapprovingly. "There is still much to learn before we reach _that_ point. You three—speak now."

"Perhaps stargazing from the Astronomy Tower?" Dean suggested quickly, trying to keep his voice level through the bundle of nerves.

"No, no, far too much, far too soon," Blaise interjected quickly, as the Master had raised a critical brow. "What if he presented her with a gift, or some token of appreciation?"

"But it could seem banal and clichéd if not carefully executed," McGonagall warned.

"She might enjoy a sonnet?" meekly suggested Neville.

"Enough," Draco muttered forcibly. "I have no need for your suggestions."

"But your highness—"

"I said _enough_," the Master nearly hissed. "I already know what my next course of action will be."

"My Lord?" Snape questioned after a moment of uncomfortable silence.

"After all," the Prince chuckled, allowing himself a wolfish grin. "Granger actually suggested the idea herself."

"Miss Hermione?" McGonagall gaped in utter confusion. "Your highness, what are you—"

"Continue forward with your duties as planned, and leave the rest to me," he announced coldly. With all traces of his earlier smugness gone, he turned on his heel, strode down the corridor, and was out of sight in all but a moment.

Nostrils flaring, McGonagall immediately rounded on the small trio before her. "Mr. Zabini, Mr. Thomas, and Mr. Longbottom: explain this at once! To what on earth could he be referring?"

"I'm sorry, Madam McGonagall," Dean apologized. "But we haven't the slightest idea."

"Then what are you waiting for—go investigate!"

"But he specifically warned us against interfering!" Blaise exclaimed, sounding especially alarmed.

"Which is entirely different from _observing_! The Master cannot yet be trusted in these affairs alone! Now go!"

As she watched them hurriedly trail down the length of the velvety carpet, she turned to her colleague in obvious consternation. "You think I'm overreacting, don't you?" she nearly accused. Snape took a moment to collect his thoughts before answering.

"I think that this is a very... delicate situation."

"Indeed," she huffed, obviously having found his answer dissatisfactory, yet not unexpected. "I know very well that _you_ have your own means of..."

"Maintaining control?"

"I was _going_ to say staying informed. But I suppose it is not too far a stretch to imply both. You have always had a way with him where others have not."

"It has simply become clear in my experiences that the Master is most responsive to suggestion when he is allowed to believe that he is the one to have suggested it."

A heavy pause filled the air with memories, and McGonagall whispered, "Just like his father."

_Rest their souls._

Snape nodded slowly, his hooded eyes dark and forever bound to the past. McGonagall knew her colleague well enough to notice the hint of hesitation, the weight of unwanted words writhing at the tip of his tongue, and sure enough, when he spoke next, his voice was deep and layered with all of the grievances of the years behind them. "Just like..."

"Just like You-Know-Who," she breathed, feeling the space between them grow thick with the scent of blood and betrayal, and then neither could escape the dreadful memories of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

"Severus," McGonagall said suddenly. "I care not if you judge me for what I am about to disclose, although I trust that you have the sense not to... but sometimes, I can't help but wonder: what are we doing? What's to become of this girl?" McGonagall shifted herself closer to the cauldron, and despite their assured privacy, her voice dropped to that of a mere whisper. "Can all of this deception really be justified? What will she think of us when she finally learns the truth, Severus? I fear the worst."

"We have little choice in the matter, Minerva. We must work under the assumption that by the time she learns of our scheming, she will already be..."

"Trapped in the throes of love?" she commented dryly.

"Involved," he rephrased. "It would be one thing to console her _after_ our transformations, but should she begin to suspect questionable intentions before we have solidified the relationship...? For the time being, our only concern should be that we might lose her trust before he earns her love."

The tip of the hat shifted as McGonagall shook her head. "Should he ever manage," she lamented quietly. "And what say you of the Master's progress? What observations have you made?"

"It is certainly no secret that his renewed presence about the castle implies much of his... _willingness_ to make a conscious effort, at least. That he accompanies her so frequently as of late is certainly to be considered a marked improvement as well."

"Could it be telling? Perhaps his level of comfort with the girl has heightened even more than we imagined?"

"Perhaps, perhaps not. After all, he'd spent so little time away from the Astronomy Tower for so many years, I'd begun to wonder whether our servants might not recognize him. His perseverance may be a testament of his loyalty to the kingdom, or it may very well simply be a result of years of tedium."

"At least the girl is somewhat easier to read!" she sighed irritably.

"One last word, Minerva," Snape said, his air and demeanor suddenly reeking of caution. "I have very strong reason to believe that Miss Granger still intends to escape."

McGonagall's eyes grew wide in alarm. "How strong?"

"It is no secret that she is... a _willful_ girl," he said. "She has proven herself to be capable of great thought, though her misconceptions are equally as great. I have no doubt that she has at least considered making another attempt."

"So it is but a hunch?"

"It is... a well-derived, informed assumption."

"So what do you propose?" McGonagall paced, already preparing for the worst. "Absolutely no one else must know about this."

"Agreed," Snape. "And she must be kept distracted, certainly, at all times... but we also need to ensure that it becomes all the more difficult for her to even consider, let alone prepare, any alternative plans. We must not only focus her attention on the Master's redeeming qualities, but our personal quests should also _encourage_ closer connections to all the castle."

"To all of the servants, you mean?"

"Even to the castle, itself; she has expressed in the Four Houses."

"The Four Houses... but Severus, are you certain? Such research could easily lead her to—"

"Everything that could trace back to You-Know-Who was destroyed in the aftermath of That Night," Snape reminded her. "This interest will keep her adequately preoccupied for some time, and could easily strengthen the connections she feels for her new home."

"But it won't be enough," McGonagall warned. "A distraction may certainly hinder her progress in forging an escape, but we will need a more active approach. Isn't she pursuing her own version of a cure?"

"Indeed, and I have already discussed an arrangement with her. It has been my intention for quite some time that we use the Four Houses and the hoax of finding a cure as a dual defense for leading her astray. In fact, I have already enlisted the help of an old friend through the helpful connection of Midas... And I plan to introduce her to Miss Granger this very afternoon."

McGonagall smirked in spite of herself. "Why, Severus... I'm rather impressed. I'm sure Hedwig will appreciate the gesture, though I do hope Midas will not be too jealous. He's grown rather fond of the girl."

"I trust that he will survive."

"That remains to be seen," McGonagall said keenly. "But as solid as our scheming may be, I'm afraid we are still missing a rather important player in all of this."

Snape merely stared on, offering a quirked brow as his only response.

"Miss Parkinson," McGonagall stated glumly. "Surely she's been wondering why she has been kept so neatly in the dark."

"What does it matter? She no doubt sees all that she wants to see, regardless."

"Which is all the more reason why it is suspicious that we have not utilized her as a resource! The Master stated that she has been kept on strict surveillance duty for some weeks now... Perhaps she can do some additional investigation into the girl's family while the Master continues on here."

"Miss Parkinson as surveillance? As an accomplice?" Snape asked. "Are you sure that's wise? Her closeness to the Master aside, her ineptness for secrecy is alone reason enough to laugh at the idea, and I trust I need not list each of the dangers of such a partnership. If the Master were to learn of what we had done without his notice..."

"Fine," she huffed, seeing reason within his counterarguments. "But you must promise that we will at least consider her an option as the third full moon nears, should the situation warrant it."

Snape again remained silent, but McGonagall took his sigh of resignation as the answer he intended it to be.

"How difficult," McGonagall pursed her lips, which only threatened to tear the seams more than the years of worry already had. "If only he were more..."

"Open-minded? Cooperative? Patient?"

"_Anything,_" McGonagall sighed heavily. "But he is what he is."

"He is what he is," Snape's deep voice intoned quietly. "Because he is his father's son."

McGonagall paused, lost in a hurricane of a thousand thoughts, and knew that perhaps she and her colleague were the only creatures still alive who understood how deep those blood ties ran. She set her fraying lips in a firm line, and conveyed with her eyes all of the fears and memories and hopes that she dared not speak aloud; voice soft but solid, she said only what was necessary.

"Young Malfoy may have been traveling down that path before... but the Master will no longer _become_ _him_. We promised ourselves, Severus. And I intend to keep that promise."

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Later that day, as Snape pondered the differences between a promise and a prophecy, and all of the complexities and simplicities of blood alliances, he realized that McGonagall's reminder could have just as easily been referring to another... the Prince would no longer become _him, _she had said.

But with all of the influences that had dragged his young ward down over the years, and with so little to lift him back up, Snape couldn't help but wonder.

Just who _would_ he become?

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* * *

Sometime earlier that morning, locked away in the cozy corners of the grand library sat the usual troop of visitors... though perhaps not with the same usual level of energy. Hermione was flipping through pages with a speed that made Neville dizzy, and the intermittent attempts made both by Blaise and Dean to distract her from her reading had been met with varying degrees of success. Blaise had just recently made their distress known once more—"Hermione, is five hours with the same book _really_ not enough?"—and he and Dean had since taken it upon themselves to wallow in self-pity until she acquiesced to their demands of taking a turn about the castle, or visiting the botanical garden to break the monotony. It was a reasonable request, surely, and one that she might have easily considered on any other occasion.

But today, she had other plans.

"Luna," Hermione tread lightly, as soon as she was certain that her thoughts had finally organized themselves clearly enough. "There's actually something I'm hoping you might be able to assist me with... regarding the castle."

This immediately caught Neville's attention, but both Blaise and Dean were too absorbed in their own library-induced misery to notice.

"Do you wish to combat the mysterious dwellers of the Womping Willow?" asked an intrigued Luna.

"Um," Hermione started. She tried to decline—to move her lips into a solid "no," to stop the conversation in its tracks—but instead what came out was, "_What_?"

"The story of shape shifters who hexed the willow at the fringes of the forest, just beyond the castle grounds, and utilized it as a portal... Though it is highly debated as to whether it was to a mere hiding place, or a portal to hell."

"Not... exactly."

"Or perhaps you are interested in the ghosts that roam the castle? I hear the Bloody Baron is a brute, but that Headless Nick is quite lovely."

"_What_?" she gasped.

"Oh, come on, Luna! We all know that that's not true. That was just some story Finnegan made up to tease the maids on the fourth floor!"

"No," Hermione stated purposefully, starting to think twice about asking them for help—_especially_ Luna. But she needed to know this. "I was actually wondering if you could tell me more about... the Four Houses." There was a moment of silence as Luna's features tilted, and for the first time, Hermione thought she saw confusion pass through her dreamy eyes.

"What a peculiar interest," commented the book, and Hermione couldn't contain her indignant scoff. She though rather snippily that Luna, of all people, had little right to declare anything peculiar—_especially of me_—but she held her tongue, and aimed for graciousness.

"I would really appreciate the help," she managed.

"And help is what you shall receive!" Blaise exclaimed, having come into the conversation upon hearing the topic of Hermione's research. "We are collectors of knowledge, we are, and so you shall find what you seek."

"You know about the Four Houses then?" she asked, unable to hide the anticipation in her voice. "What they are?"

"Well," Dean began, shedding far less enthusiasm for the subject than Blaise had. "We know what they _are_, certainly... almost all of us do. But much of the information regarding the school has been lost over the centuries, and it's difficult to say what we might be able to find. What has you so curious about the Four Houses, anyway?"

"I... well," Hermione stumbled, and willed her tongue to say the words she had so carefully chosen beforehand. "I made it no secret that I'm in interested in doing all that I can to help find a cure for your curse, and I'd like to start looking into things here at the library. I've got a hunch that the magic could in some way be related to our location, and could further be related to the history of the school. I remember reading in a book once that natural elements can be key in casting a spell, and it only seems reasonable to learn more about what once stood here, doesn't' it?"

_Perhaps to someone who _believes_ in this rubbish_, she thought through an awkward smile_... _ She had given up on trying to rationalize her own personal, selfish reasons for looking into this matter—_Escape? To distract them from the truth? Curiosity? To learn more about Riddle along the way? _She could hardly draw the line anymore—but that hardly meant that she wasn't going to stop feeling guilty about purposefully digging up histories that could lead to such private, clearly painful memories... but it also didn't mean that she was going to stop looking altogether, either. Her recent behavior toward the Master had her feeling completely out of sorts, and she was desperate to find some sort of foothold amongst the mess she had found herself in. She was disadvantaged at every turn; why shouldn't she be allowed to find some kind of an upper hand?

_Hermione Granger_, she thought miserably, and the voice in her head sounded suspiciously like her father's. _What would your mother think, if she knew what you were up to?_

And in the silence of her heart, she knew exactly what they would have thought, had they still been alive. She whispered the words in her mind, her heart turning to stone, and knew—beyond all doubt and hope—the truth.

_Nothing_. _They would have thought nothing of any of this. _

_And it's all my fault._

"Hermione?"

She started violently, her return to reality as abrupt and jarring as a slap to the face. Embarrassed by the array of worried expressions before her, and still disoriented from the emotions welling within her, Hermione did what she did best, and put on a disarming smile to allay their fears and to hide secrets of her own.

"I'm sorry," she laughed. "I got lost in my own master plan. What were you saying?"

"That's our Hermione," Blaise boasted gleefully. "Always the thinker!"

"We were wondering if there might be anything else we could gather for you," Neville repeated warmly, his eyes clearly indicating that her lie had not been received by him as easily as it had been by the others. _But it was received well enough that he won't pry,_ Hermione thought with a measure of pride. _And that is all that matters._ "Other documents? Records?"

"Actually," Hermione began slowly. Whether it was the turbulence of nostalgia within her or the realization that lying was growing at least _somewhat _easier, she didn't know, but whatever the reason, she felt emboldened enough to allow impulse to push through. Ignoring her earlier declarations of seeking information on the date and duration of her stay by herself, she casually asked, "Is there an almanac that I could borrow?"

"An almanac?" Dean repeated curiously, his bristles scrunching in thought. "Well, I'm sure we could find one somewhere. Any reason in particular?"

With more ease than she thought possible, Hermione gave a careless shrug and announced, "It might be easier to trace the spell's roots if we had a clearer understanding of the natural cycles as well."

Dean nodded thoughtfully. "That's true, I suppose. Well, it certainly couldn't hurt to try, could it?"

She felt the corners of her lips tilt upward of their own accord, and knew that when she spoke, her voice would be level. Since the previous afternoon, she had been considering the somewhat shocking changes taking root within her, and even now, she vaguely wondered what was happening to her... Civil conversations with her captor? Camaraderie amongst her guard dogs? Lies slipping between her teeth like the fog of one's breath on a cold morning? She could feel herself altering in impossible ways, and with an alarming sense of accession, she realized that it might not all be for the better.

Which was why she slanted her smile into nonchalance, and vowed to better remember that although a guest, she was a prisoner, and although a prisoner, she was not defenseless. Despite the obvious care she felt for the servants of the castle, and despite whatever new and disturbing feelings of tolerance she had found in her interactions with the Master, she was not going to let them stand in the way of her priorities. Not anymore.

She shrugged again, and shook her head with careful detachment. Her smile lingered.

"No harm in looking, of course."

* * *

As Hermione quietly gazed at the various shapes within the grand window of Hufflepuff but an hour or so later, she felt a presence behind her that she had not felt in over a week.

"Still so preoccupied by Helga's badger, I see."

Hermione shifted her gaze ever so slightly, allowing just a glimpse of the cauldron in her periphery; she had not seen him since their heated encounter, which had taken place in that very spot. "Sir Snape."

"Miss Granger."

It seemed pointless that she should try to hide her disillusionment from him, and after a long moment of quiet acknowledgment, and perhaps understanding, Hermione asked, "The Hufflepuff House belonged to a woman named Helga then?"

"Indeed. She was its founder."

"And the others? What were their names?" she asked, eyes roving over the panes of colored glass. Snape saw hunger lodged within her expression, but knew that it had much more to do with what laid _beyond_ the barrier, rather than what prompted its creation.

"There were three others," Snape said quietly, hoping to gauge more of this new development. She had always seemed to convey such fiery determination; this cold detachment across her features did not bode well for their predicament... _I arrived not a moment too soon_. "Rowena Ravenclaw, Godric Gryffindor, and Salazar Slytherin. Together, they were the founders of Hogwarts."

Hermione released a short breath that had Snape's eyes narrowing in puzzlement. "I hadn't realized the medieval period was so fond of alliteration."

"It is a well-guarded secret, I'm sure," he drawled, and he was pleased to note the quirk of her lips. Snape paused as McGonagall's earlier words rang through his mind, and he wondered at the nature of his hesitation. After deep breath, he said, "I hear that this curiosity of yours is quickly becoming something of a hobby. The servants with whom you so often keep company have also informed me that it is all in greater pursuit of finding a cure... Now although you and I both know that is not the case," he paused again, watching as Hermione turned to face him more fully, her eyes wary. "Your reasons for presenting such a front are yours alone, and _they_ shall not be given reason from me to wonder... You have plenty enough that troubles your mind."

"You suspect me," she said evenly, but with narrowed eyes. "Have you come to warn me that you know of my intentions?"

"Miss Granger," Snape stated slowly, eyes grave. "The only warning I bring you is that of caution."

"Who else is aware?" she asked after a pause.

"It is I, alone," he replied. "And though you have little reason to trust, I can assure you that this is how it will remain."

Hermione turned somber eyes back to the golden shades of light filtering through the morning's peak, and she laughed a hollow laugh that only drew his concern more deeply. "Indeed... You must think me very unwise for such plans."

"Very... but I would think even less of you if such plans did _not_ exist," he admitted quietly, and Hermione couldn't stop her probing stare. "That is not why I am here, however. It has been made clear that you are determined to research a cure, authentically or not, and I have come to extend a hand of assistance. Midas has been gladly at your disposal for quite some time, but it will not be long until the Master notices his extended absences, and begins to realize that something is amiss. I encourage you to take advantage of another friend of the castle's, from whom you should be expecting a visit at any moment."

"You are offering an additional resource for my plans to escape?" she asked, and her incredulity lent her voice an even sharper edge.

"I am alerting you to a situation that might put _both_ of us at risk, and am highly recommending a solution. How you choose to utilize her will be entirely up to you, though I trust that you will consider your actions more carefully henceforth."

Hermione's brows furrowed at the insinuation, but she couldn't contain her curiosity. "Her?"

There was a beat of silence, and then Snape twisted his lips into a call that she had often heard Midas make. A flutter of wings echoed in the distance, but before she could form a question on her lips, a figure came swooping through the corridor to land at the sill before her. Hermione let her eyes trail over a beautiful, snowy owl, and when her eyes met this new pair, her breath caught in her throat. Whereas Midas was erratic and restless, this owl radiated calm and quiet wisdom, and Hermione was more than a little unnerved to have such a directed gaze penetrate her so.

"Miss Granger, meet Hedwig. She has agreed to take Midas' place as your trusted messenger."

"A confidant then?" she ventured, eyeing her snowy feathers with open admiration.

"Though ever the professional with regards to letter correspondence, she cannot pretend to be well-versed in the art of secret-keeping when she is not convinced that it is a secret worth being kept."

Hermione glanced cautiously toward the owl, unsure of what to make of her feathery, tilting head and equally curious gaze. "Sir, I can't help but wonder if _this_ is the owl with whom you discovered their inability to maintain confidence?"

"I'm glad to see that you remembered my earlier guidance. I must say it gives hope to your aptitude yet." He ignored her look of irritation, and nodded for her to extend her arm. Once a suitable perch was created, Hedwig took flight and landed upon Hermione's forearm with all the majestic grace of nature that such a creature may call forth, and despite all of her—_perfectly reasonable_—concerns, Hermione was smitten before she could even register that her fingers were tracing delicate patterns along the span of Hedwig's beautiful feathers.

"She has taken to you quickly, which is a encouraging sign that you may be able to gain her respect more easily than most," he explained, and his words gave Hermione pause. "I will leave you two to become better acquainted, but before I do, something must be said: I understand that there are many difficulties at play, Miss Granger, and that much of what has transpired is not by any means ideal. You shall do what you must, and I will not find fault in your actions, whatever they may be, so long as they were contrived from pure intentions. But remember that in whatever manner you find your leave, your actions will have a much more powerful, much longer-lasting impact on those who reside here, those who have allowed themselves to grow attached to you, than the power that the curse could ever hold over them."

Hedwig sat very still on Hermione's arm, which had grown stiff and tense with unpleasant thoughts. "So this is your true warning then?"

"Self-preservation is a concept with which we both share a very clear understanding, and I shall not blame you for any attempts to maintain yours," he continued. "You should know, however, that whereas your priorities lie beyond these castle grounds, my priorities lie within these walls, and that I am indebted by a decades-old promise to strive just as fiercely to protect my own. You should be prepared for that."

"This castle certainly has a penchant for contradictions," Hermione said slowly, but the ice she felt around her heart couldn't seem to make its way into her voice as she'd intended. "You assist me in the same moment that you belittle me, and you provide guidance and encouragement in the same breath as you propose thinly-veiled threats. Nothing is ever allowed to be simple."

"I'm sure you can understand."

Hermione sighed deeply, feeling even more tired than before. She stroked the feathers about the face of a very appreciative Hedwig, and nodded. "All too well, I suppose."

"I am not telling you distance yourself any more or any less than what you have been attempting these last few days," Snape said suddenly, as if these were the words he had been hoping to share all along. "But there is much to consider, and you have the power to decide what sort aftertaste you would like to leave for those left behind."

Hermione turned back to the bright shapes of yellow glowing in the rare burst of sunlight then, and Snape took this as a silent acquiescence to at least consider his words. He had already pivoted and reached at least ten paces away, however, when he heard her curiosity burst forth.

"You mentioned an old promise," she called out, as Hedwig still nuzzled her shoulder. "A promise to whom?"

He staunchly deliberated against it, but in the end, due to something unseen and inexplicable to all other eyes, something within him gave way. He answered her with a parting call, thrown carelessly behind him as he continued on.

"No one but an old, eccentric fool."

Hermione's eyes narrowed as she strained to hear, and then with a small laugh at how ridiculously her morning had already passed, she held Hedwig higher into the air so that she could look straight into her questioning eyes.

"What do you think, Hedwig? He hasn't exactly steered me wrong before, but it's no doubt that he has ulterior motives at play. Should I bother to listen?"

Hermione watched the owl move on her arm, glancing curiously at the long span of extending wings and the odd rotations of her small head. Hedwig was just as difficult to interpret as Midas.

"Well," she sighed, and decided that it might be time to head back to the library, after all. The others would begin to wonder where she'd run off. "I suppose we'll see."

* * *

After Hedwig took flight at Hermione's encouragement to pay Midas a visit, she slowly made her way back to the library's entrance, her dragging feet catching along the cracks between the stone all the while. She tried to keep Snape's confessions far from her mind, at least until later that night when she might be able to reflect upon them with an additional measure of privacy, but to no avail. Things were growing more complicated by the minute, and the longer the stayed, the higher the likelihood there would be of even more people she cared about being hurt.

"I'm such a fool," she sighed, remembering the morbid pleasure she'd taken in lying only a few hours before. The morning was only just coming to an end, and the heaviness of her thoughts had already made her heart nothing but a deadweight. _Caught in the middle with nowhere left to run. _

"How pathetic," she muttered, retreating back into the refuge of the library through the grand doors. The others were laughing boisterously at something or other, and it was only as Hermione neared the window that she saw the cause of such overwhelming joy.

"Look, Hermione! We have built a fortress!" cried Neville happily. And so they had, Hermione saw. In the brief reprieve Hermione had taken from their research, her companions had used all of their rejected stacks to construct a number of impressive walls and towers, as well as a surprisingly sturdy roof over one or two of the constructs.

"_I _have built a fortress," Blaise announced almost acidly. "You have built a measly tent."

Hermione's expression melted at the absurdity of it all, and with a smile wrought from genuine relief rather than survival and false intentions, she laughed. "They are both grand... but I can't say I approve of such blatant misuse of literature. Where is Luna? I can't imagine she'd be any happier about this."

"I am here, Hermione!" called her serene voice from below, between a large diagonal stack of books. "I have volunteered to serve as a support to the nave. I am a flying buttress. "

"And... so you are," Hermione noted slowly, feeling far less surprised than she might have earlier thought. She opened her mouth again, but it fell shut not a moment later. _What could one say to such a satisfied flying buttress?_

"Care to join us, Hermione?" Dean asked through determined grunts as he prepared another pillar. "There's still plenty to do!"

"That much is clear," she smiled. "But I think I'll continue on with the research for now."

"Splendid idea, Hermione!" Blaise called out cheerfully as she winded her way around the towers of books toward the large mahogany table, where her most recent work was still spread out in neat, sorted piles. "Never fear—we shall hold down the fort in the meantime!" He burst into raucous laughter. "Did you get it?" he poked Dean with his handle, who shuffled away in annoyance with a string of curses, lest he accidentally catch fire. "Hold down the fort? Did you get it?"

"Blaise, for the love of everything right and good in this world, just _shut up_."

She let the others' mindless chatter wash over her as she absentmindedly flipped through the pages of another history book, and her mind eventually wandered to that which had been bothering her most, and what she had fought hardest to ignore...

Hermione began to ponder the exact nature of her connection with the Prince.

No matter how confusing her newfound friendships with his servants might prove to be, there was no contest that the true origin of her anxiety was coming from the gradually increasing sense of natural ease that she found within his presence. The truth was that Hermione wasn't entirely certain of _why_ she was acting the way she was, or at exactly which point her feelings had begun to change so drastically. At the very beginning, she had feared him, but fear had quickly turned to loathing, and it was only as of that first walk through the courtyard that she began to—_dare I say it_—tolerate more of him... And then as her escape plans were coming closer and closer to fruition, she'd been feigning civility and checking her temper simply because she'd wanted to make her remaining days in captivity as easy on herself as possible.

Or so she'd thought.

_Nothing is ever allowed to be simple, is it?_

Upon returning to her room after the conversation with the Master on the balcony only just the day before, she'd been positively sick to her stomach with confusion. She knew that, from a logical perspective, what she had done to achieve such a level of easy banter with the Master couldn't _exactly_ be considered out of line; to be civil was in her best interests, and she had not only accepted this, but she had embraced and pursued it as well.

But what exactly should _civil _entail? Where did one drawn the line between civil and friendly_? _

_Or flirtatious?_

"Stop it," she whispered under breath, feeling dizzy with nausea and confusion. She was being absolutely ridiculous, and she couldn't even begin to describe the levels of wrongness attributed to such a dangerously stupid, disturbing thought. She would not even entertain the horrid idea. "Focus."

The point of this problem was that, for whatever reason, it was clear that she was already in far too deep—too deeply-rooted in the castle, in the lives and concerns of her companions, in the curious mystery surrounding the cursed Prince, all of it—and for the life of her, she couldn't distinguish the true motivations behind her behaviors. To what extent were her actions based on self-preservation, as Snape had implied, or as she herself had assumed? And, more frighteningly, to what extent had they come about simply because she was _forgetting_, and allowing herself to get carried away?

There was no point in denying that she had developed a certain kind of fondness for the time they spent together, and if she could quell the unease in her stomach long enough to consider everything objectively, she could admit that part of her even looked forward to their evenings together. He had taken to accompanying her to the library as well as joining her aimless explorations of the castle's halls, and she'd grown used to seeing him nearby. _This is what will happen to someone when she is allowed only household items and a werewolf for company!_ her frantic mind cried, but she squashed her mild panic. It was true that he wasn't by any means the best company in the world, and that for all intents and purposes he could still be considered a selfish, arrogant fiend... But she could also admit that now, when the Master ordered her to come, and he didn't bother to check behind to see if she was following, she liked to think that it was out of familiarity instead of power.

And maybe... trust?

A feeling of warmth spread through her chest at the thought, but she killed it immediately. _Don't get ahead of yourself, Hermione. Despite whatever agreements you think you have secured in place, there is no connection between you that would warrant nor encourage trust. He has nothing but words... _But then again, the only real promises he had ever made her included the one to imprison her, and later, to never harm her.

She frowned_. And so far he has kept both. Could a captor such as he also be a man of his word? Would it even matter? There is no want of trust on my end, and I am certain that he will never willingly give me his. And,_ she thought miserably, staring down at the pile of research splayed out before her. _I have certainly given him no reason to trust me. Whether he chooses to see it or not, my desire for freedom could not be more obvious. Any trust he would bestow upon me would only be betrayed. It's better this way._

But as she lifted her quill to resume her note taking, she couldn't help but wonder if it really was.

She dropped the feather and the leaf of parchment to the table in exasperation and ran her shaky fingers through her hair in an effort to calm herself. Hermione hated this indecision. A difficult situation was something that Hermione Granger could manage with ease and confidence, but this constant waffling and uncertainty did nothing to clear her guilt. What she needed to do was to make a decision regarding the Prince one way or another—_to try or not to try?_—and to stay true to it, and accept the consequences. She'd go mad otherwise.

Hermione worried her lip nervously, glancing at the pile of history books situated on the floor beside her. It was nearly as tall as she was... What if in one of those books she found any of the horrible secrets concerning Riddle, secrets that they so desperately wanted to hide from her? What if... what would happen if she found secrets that even _he_ had not yet discovered?

_The diary is still there_, her mind whispered.

"No," she breathed. "Too far."

No matter how desperately she wanted to read that diary again, she would not dare to pry so freely. Whatever internal conflicts she suffered, she would not infringe on anyone's privacy so directly... _I will just have to be content with whatever I might find in the library—and I _will_ focus on freedom_, she vowed. _I will act according to my survival, not my morbid curiosity. _

"Is this the official... exam?"

"Most definitely not. It looks like some young students created it for fun."

"Perhaps some scholarly prank?"

"What's it say, Luna?"

Her companions' voices drifted through the air, and Hermione's focus suddenly shifted. "Did you find something?" she asked, rising from her chair. She hadn't even realized that the fortress construction had stopped, and was surprised to find them all hovering about a stack of old, tattered parchment, barely bound together by a piece or two of battered string.

"Hermione, come look and see," Neville encouraged her, pointing to the documents in front of him. "We've found something that claims to be the Sorting process that Hogwarts used to place students in each of the Four Houses."

Hermione lowered herself onto a cushion beside them and gently took the parchment into her hands. "The Sorting Hat?"

"It can't be real," Blaise said quickly. "We can keep looking for more accurate records. This is just some thing we found in an old textbook. The name itself inspires ridicule."

"Do you mind if I see the book?"

"Have at it," Dean said cheerfully, passing it along to her. Her eyes widened in disbelief as soon as she saw the cover.

"Advanced Potion-Making?" she asked incredulously. "As in... magic?"

"Not necessarily," Luna explained. "A potion is any drink or draft having medicinal or poisonous properties. I do believe this book could contain recipes of potions of the magical sort, however."

"Right," Hermione said dubiously, trailing her eyes down the tattered, archaic cover. Suddenly feeling very put off by the whole ordeal, Hermione discarded the book, gently slipping it onto a pile behind her. "So have you found anything else relating to the Houses? Or the... Sorting, as they called it?"

"Unfortunately... no," Dean smiled apologetically. "We're more than happy to keep looking, but... well."

"Our expectations of finding anything more substantial aren't very high," Neville explained regretfully.

"Oh," Hermione said, her disappointment nearly tangible. "I see."

"But we _will_ keep looking," Blaise assured her.

"That's all right," she said, shaking her head. "Thank you for trying. Have you taken a look at what you've already found at least?"

"We were just about to start," said Dean. "And by 'we,' I mean Luna, as she's the only other literate one here. Ready, Luna?"

"All right, first question," said the little blue book. "Do you prefer red meat or poultry?"

"That can't be right," Blaise protested. He looked at the page curiously, flipped it over, then flipped it back again, incredulous. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It could be asking for dietary preferences based on the eating habits of the House animals?" Dean suggested with a shrug. "The Slytherin serpent, Gryffindor lion, Hufflepuff badger, and Ravenclaw eagle."

"But the badger is an omnivore," Hermione reasoned. "And which of these other animals would even eat poultry?"

"And it's not very sensible for those who prefer vegetables entirely," Luna added with a nod. Hermione sent her a wary glance.

"Maybe it's searching for messages within your subconscious?" Neville pondered. "As in… it might mean something if you prefer a certain kind of meat?"

"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard," Blaise announced with disdain. Neville pouted.

"Well, I don't see you coming up with any better ideas," the pot sulked.

"Look at this one!" Hermione exclaimed, pointing to something farther down the page. "You are walking along and you reach a crossroads, one path leads to the sea, one through a forest, and a third to a castle. Which path would you choose to tread?"

"What a load of crock," Blaise muttered, turning the pages sideways.

"Stop that, I'm trying to see!" Dean shouted, jabbing the candlestick in the side. "Here's another one, Hermione, read this one."

"If you could create a new potion that would give you one thing, what would you choose? Love, Glory, or Wisdom?" Hermione frowned, displeased with these students' potion obsession. _Luna will never let me hear the end of this._

"There's so many," Neville muttered, in something that could have been stupefaction just as easily as it could have been awe. "This will take us all afternoon."

"What are you talking about? We shouldn't even bother with this rubbish!"

"What do you think, Hermione?" Luna asked. "You are the one most interested by the Four Houses. Would you like to learn which House might have been your home?"

"This hardly seems... reliable," Hermione noted critically, turning over the stack and examining it at various angles. "But I must admit that this is more than I expected to find, and... it _does_ have a measure of appeal, even if only created by a bunch of hooligans, I suppose."

"It's settled!" Dean whooped. "Break out the parchment—it's examination time!"

"All right, then," Blaise grumbled in annoyance, his reluctance clear. "Fine. Whatever. Let the Sorting begin."

* * *

"Ron, dear," Mrs. Weasley called out much later that evening, as he was putting away the dried plate he'd used for supper. "I forgot to mention it earlier, but you've received a letter."

Fred snickered. "A letter for Ronnikins? My, my, what have you been up to, little brother?"

"Sod off," he grumbled, approaching the envelope in his mother's outstretched hand.

"Who's it from, Ron?" asked Ginny, only half-curious.

"It's... from Professor Remus Lupin."

He turned the letter over in his hands, unused to the flowing name in an elegant script and unfamiliar with the feeling of such rich parchment between his fingertips.

"The professor in London?" Ginny clarified, clearly more intrigued.

"The batty one obsessed with strange and unusual creatures?" George laughed, jabbing Fred in the ribs with a jovial elbow.

"Yeah," Harry said somberly. "And the old family friend of Hermione's."

And suddenly, Ron felt suffocated in the silence. His raging urge to run—into the forest, into her home, into his room, into the dark—was literally pulling him in every direction, and as he stood standing there in the center of the kitchen with the not-so-familiar professor's letter in his shaking hands, he was sure that he would burst.

"Oh dear," Molly said quietly. "I wonder if anyone's shared with him... if anybody's told him the news."

"I'm going out," Ron declared with a flat voice, reaching for his cloak on the hook and passing through the door before anyone had a chance of speaking. "Send for me if you need anything."

With the letter still clutched between his aching fingers, Ron steadily made his way to Hermione's home. He could have gone to the tavern and drowned away his troubles, but his mother would have learned about the excursion eventually, and besides... it wasn't really where he wanted to go.

As he came up the winding path past the birch tree to Hermione's front door, Ron glanced down again at the fine script... he'd never seen his own name etched so nicely into anything.

"I don't really want to read you," he admitted to the envelope as he opened the door and slipped inside. "But it's not really like I've got a choice."

_He's going to want to offer all sorts of condolences... and he'll want answers about what happened to her after all... And although I have them, I can't give him any._

He considered stalling by opening another bottle of gin, but tossed the thought almost immediately; he'd need the gin for writing the response more than for actually reading the letter. He debated as to where he should read it. Her kitchen table? The loveseat in the parlor? The spot on the cliff overlooking the village?

"Bloody hell, you coward," he muttered under his breath, pulled it out of his pocket, and began to read right where he stood.

.

.

.

.

_Mr. Ron Weasley,_

_I realize that it's been some time since you last heard from me, and I imagine that this letter may come as a surprise to you and your family. Please send them my regards and best well wishes for the winter—I hear that this year's is to be especially brutal, and I hope that both your family and your crops stay well._

_I admit I've simply been feeling a little guilty about not staying more in touch with Little Whinging after Mr. and Mrs. Grangers' passing this last year, and after returning Hermione's letter, I've been thinking about writing to Harry and your family. As you're surely aware, my response to Hermione's inquiry about werewolf folklore must have come ages before you received this note, and I wish I had thought to write you before sending the owl off on its way._

_I hope the delay between such responses have not offended you—after all, had I access to such a form of post, I would have surely utilized it! I even told Hermione that I'd love to know how she trained that owl to deliver the message! I would love to learn Hagrid's secret—he was the one who assisted her, was he not? What a splendid idea! _

.

.

.

.

And it was at that point that he lost the ability to stand.

The crumpled letter fell loose in his hand as he slid down the nearest wall, his legs giving out from underneath him, and he fell to the ground with a thud. Eyes glazed, staring straight ahead into nothingness, he realized he might vomit. He couldn't breathe.

"Hermione," he whispered, but the name suddenly sounded off, like his tongue was no longer wrapping itself around the sounds the right way. _Hermione_. The letter in his fist crumpled, and the noise was startling in the silence, but Ron heard none of it. _Hermione_.

"Pansy," he whispered, his voice low and ragged. "Pansy," he called again, louder this time, hissing through his clenched teeth. Heat spread through his veins like a shot of acid at every vital artery, and black spots danced across his vision as he tore upward. "_Pansy_!" he shouted, suddenly on his feet, and pacing the kitchen with heavy stomps. "Pansy, I know you can hear me! If you're not here within the next thirty seconds, I swear to God I'll—"

But she had already arrived in the parlor, and was watching him with wary eyes from the frame of Hermione's mirror.

* * *

There was a moment of pulsing silence, and then the cascade behind the dam unleashed.

"What's going on here that you're not telling me about?" he asked, his voice dark and dangerous in a way that Pansy had never heard before. She felt her breath hitch in her throat at the thought of what it might mean, and her eyes instinctively glanced to the crumpled parchment in his hands. _That little fool_, Pansy 's mind screeched derisively. S_he's ruined everything! _With a steadying breath, Pansy tightened her jaw and raised her eyes.

"Ginger, I don't know what you're talking about, but you had _better_ have a good reason for summoning me."

"What is it?" he repeated, his patience visibly thinning like a fraying rope.

"What is _what_?"

"Don't lie to me," he hissed, nearing her mirror in three unshakable strides.

Pansy's heart began hammering in her chest, but she kept her gaze steady and her sneer tightly in place. "I have told you everything that you needed to know."

"Is that so?" he whispered. "Then why would Hermione inquire about… werewolf lore?" he demanded, voice quiet with rage as he held up the abused parchment.

Pansy didn't even spare the letter another glance, but immediately spat, "Do not just assume my involvement in any of your little girlfriend's stupid love notes, Ginger, or—"

"Do _not _lie to me!" he shouted, and he kicked the leg of the nearby table to viciously that it snapped, toppling the wooden remains to the floor in a jarring crash that made Pansy flinch. "Enough of your stupid lies. You are going to start telling me everything, and from now on, _I'll_ be the one to decide what I need to know."

At first Pansy said nothing, still overcome with indecision and the urge to flee, still reeling from memories of toppled tables and ruined curtains and shattered mirrors.

"Talk," he demanded.

Pansy inhaled deeply, readjusting her stance and setting her shoulders. With more calm than she felt, she asked, "What did she tell you?"

"Oh, no. It's your turn. _Talk_."

"I need to know what you've learned first," she hissed.

"Not enough."

"Just tell me," Pansy raised her voice, still in disbelief as to how everything could have gone so wrong, so quickly. "I'll tell you what you want to know! Just tell me what she said to you in that letter!" Ron locked his distrustful gaze onto hers, searching for any semblance of reason to believe her, and Pansy could have cried because _there is no reason for anyone to trust me, is there? _

"Hermione didn't send it," Ron said after a long moment, and Pansy's confusion redoubled. "This was sent to me by an old friend of Hermione's family."

"Then how...?"

"_He _received a letter from Hermione," Ron said quietly.

Pansy nodded slowly, feeling the suffocating tension thicken within her lungs. "Is he aware of her situation?"

Ron scoffed and collapsed back onto the couch, then dropped the letter to the floor as he ran his fingers through his hair. "No. No one is. He is an expert in mystical creatures." Pansy's face contorted in astonishment, and she stowed away that information for later. "Hermione apparently sent him a letter to ask for more information on—believe it or not—_werewolves_... but I'm guessing that doesn't come as much of a surprise to you."

Despite years of practice, Pansy still stiffened under his interrogative stare and averted her gaze. _This is different_, her mind screamed. _Nothing like this has ever happened before. What am I going to do?_

"Does it, Pansy?"

She looked back to him then, and although she still felt totally out of her mind, she was a Parkinson, and so her next words carried a hint of challenge. "Are you certain you really want to know?"

"I'll be the one to decide," he reminded her, not missing a beat.

"You won't believe me," she whispered, clinging to a last shred of hope.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows onto his knees, and stared so directly into her eyes that she swore he was reading her soul. "I don't believe in any of this. But I don't really have a choice. Do I?"

"I'll tell you," she said quietly, if only to calm the shaking in her voice. "But you have to promise me that you won't do anything stupid."

Ron's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Such as?"

"Such as working on your own, without my help."

"Let me tell you what. You actually start doing what you said you would do, and get started on actually getting her out of there… right now," Ron said, voice low. "Or I'm going in there myself."

A bolt of panic struck through her. "You wouldn't. You wouldn't be able to get her out. You'd only be injured."

Ron smiled, and she found this new indifference frightening. "But does that mean you want me to try?"

Pansy remained silent, but the sinking feeling in her heart told her that she had—_for the moment_—lost. Secret keeping had never been her strength, but tonight it had finally become her downfall.

"I don't care how you do it," he nearly spat, his knuckles turning white. "Just know that we tried things your way, and now it's time to compromise. Whatever you intend to do to start moving the plan forward must be done _tonight. _

_._

_._

_._

_._

"But first, you and I are going to have a little chat._"_

_._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

"I'm sorry, Miss Granger," the servant informed her ruefully, much later that evening. "But the Master is out tonight on the hunt."

Hermione's brows drew together in confusion. "Hunt?"

The little bucket glanced meaningfully for her to come nearer and, once she did, whispered conspiratorially, "Even _wolves_ need to eat sometime, you know."

"Um," Hermione paused for a moment, staring at the bucket's energetically waggling brows, and pulled back as slowly as she could without seeming disrespectful. "Right. Well, do you have any idea when he might return?"

"Not until morning, my dear."

"Morning?" she asked, unable to contain her surprise. "Are you certain?"

"Absolutely certain," the bucket replied. "Shall I send word for him upon his return?"

"No," she said immediately. "No, please do not trouble yourself. I will wait. Thank you for your help, and good night."

She bid him farewell with a small curtsy and quickly hurried around the corner so that she could collect her thoughts. Hermione walked along the path, warming her crossed arms absentmindedly as she traveled without a destination, and bit her cheek as she quelled the unwelcome sensation that had come over her.

Disappointment.

"Get a grip, Hermione," she reminded herself. "There's no need to get all out of sorts."

After all, it was only just that morning that she had come to terms with her growing sense of… _attachment _to the castle, and anyone who knew anything of Hermione's character would recognize her love of a routine in a heartbeat. There were perfectly logical reasons as to why she felt so disoriented.

_But there aren't any that explain why I suddenly feel alone._

"All right, Hermione," she interrupted her disturbing thoughts with a rather decided air. "Usual routine has been broken, but that's _fine_. You're resourceful. What would you like to do now?"

_I can't go to the kitchens—there are just too many people there at night, and I don't think I can handle all the noise just now. I would dread returning to my rooms_… _But if I go back to the library, I will only think of home… and that won't do anyone any good. There must be something I can do… I know!_ Hermione thought with a burst of animation. _I finally have a spare moment to go visit Padma and to apologize for how poorly our first introduction turned out to be. _

Having a plan always made Hermione feel more sure of herself, and so it was with a much lighter heart that she made her way to the guest room where she had first found her Wardrobe Twins' twin.

"That's funny," Hermione muttered to herself as she peered inside. "I could have sworn this was the room." It was in the same corridor, the same number of doors down, and truth be told, everything about the guest room _seemed_ familiar… sans the talkative twin. "Is anyone there?" Hermione asked, too used to the castle's mysterious ways to feel silly about calling out into an empty room. "I'm looking for a friend, named Padma. I just wanted to come by and apologize for the other day, as we never got a chance to properly meet."

There was a familiar shuffling noise behind her, and she smiled as she turned.

"Ah, there you are! I—"

But it wasn't Padma.

"Oh," Hermione frowned, completely stunned by the sight of someone else's reflection in the mirror across the room. "I'm sorry, I thought… I was looking for someone and… I'm Hermione," she managed to say through her daze. "And I'm afraid I'm a bit confused."

The woman in the mirror said nothing, and seemed much more preoccupied with sizing Hermione up from a distance. Hermione forced herself to remain still, to keep from shifting uncomfortably, and took the silence as an opportunity to take stock of her as well. The woman was beautiful, Hermione noted immediately, especially in the traditional sense of refined features and petite bone structure, but her eyes were sharp with scrutiny and her lips were tight with a calculating stare.

When the seconds dragged on and Hermione grew all the more unnerved, she released a sharp breath, and attempted to remain polite. "I'm sorry… and you are?"

The woman smiled prettily, but the look in her eyes had warning bells ringing in Hermione's ears.

"So, you're what everyone has been making such a fuss about? Forgive me for my rudeness; I simply expected... _more."_

.

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.

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* * *

**End Note: **Needless to say, I am pretty pumped for the next chapter. ;)

A few of the questions from the Sorting Hat came from Pottermore previews provided by friends, for those of you who are curious.

Also, I already mentioned this a few chapters back, but I feel like it's time to bring it up again, especially since it's getting more drastic with each chapter as more and more people add my story to their notifications… According to my stats, this fic is on the Story Alert list of around 300 accounts... but I only received 7 reviews for the last chapter. :/ That's not even 0.05%... and that sort of thing kind of gets to you after a while, you know?

If you enjoyed what you read, if you have helpful feedback, or if you would just like to say hello, please leave a review. It would really mean a lot to me!

**And finally, a HUGE thanks to all of my especially loyal reviewers! **(And I know there are more, so please forgive me if I accidentally glanced over your name while making this list!)**: **waterflower20, EgoistaSince94, Keira-House M.D., XloveXconquersXallX, SharpiesInAGayRainbow, sammarylovesmalfoy-I THANK YOU ALL. :)


	21. Fuel the Fire

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic. Similarly, none of the song lyrics posted here are my own, and have received proper credit at the beginning of each respective chapter.

**Author's Notes:** 4_/1/12_. It's a real update-not an April Fools' joke! (Although I did fall victim to a particularly clever one this morning, courtesy of a very sneaky friend.) As some of you may know, my academic semester is coming to an end... which means more writing opportunities! I'm still working full-time and I'll be preparing for my month-long trip to Spain set for July, but my growing schedule availability will allow me to aim for a chapter update every two weeks instead of every month. Also, I keep playing with the number of chapters that this fic will wind up having (it's pre-planned for 32-33 at the moment), but my goal is to have everything completely finished by this coming December.

Let's see if I can do it!

* * *

**Fuel the Fire**

* * *

_Come on, come on  
__Put your hands into the fire.  
__Explain, explain  
__As I turn and meet the power.  
__This time, This time  
__Turning white and sense dire.  
__Pull up, pull up  
__From one extreme to another._

"Into the Fire" - **The Thirteen Senses**

* * *

A moment of pause followed as Hermione regained her bearings.

"I beg your pardon?" Hermione enunciated slowly, eyes sharpening through her indignation. "And just who might you be?"

The woman merely offered a slight upward tilt of the lips, and Hermione's chin rose instinctively. The aura surrounding the mirror was permeated with magic, and she could sense the life within the glass like a resounding buzzat her senses. This, coupled with the undeniable tension sharpening the young woman's gaze, had the rolling waves of uncertainty practically hissing about Hermione's ears. _Who on earth is she? Why isn't she like the others?_ So much about her was already screaming _different_.

"Look, I apologize if I intruded. It won't happen again," Hermione said crisply. When the woman's only response was an amused raising of her brow, Hermione's impatience flared. "If you have business with me, I suggest you make it known."

"Calm your horses," the woman drawled. "There's no need to be catty."

Anger and surprise trembled through her veins, and a thousand sharp words begged to be released from the tip of her tongue, but instead she settled for: "I don't know who you are, or who you _think _you are, but—"

"The name is Pansy," she interrupted smoothly, her pretty expression wiped off cleanly and replaced by what Hermione realized was a shockingly familiar scowl. "And I'm here to help you."

Hermione's trail of thought was immediately shattered by her own waspish scoff. "Indeed," she laughed darkly, and turned on her heel.

"You really think you can do it alone?" Pansy's assured voice carried across the room, and the tiny hairs along Hermione's arm stiffened. "That a few trinkets and a book of days will help you escape?"

She spun around, curls flinging wildly about in her haste to face the smugness of the woman in the mirror, and suddenly the hissing about her ears became the heavy drum of her heart. The woman saw Hermione's expression and laughed.

"I've watched your little collection grow, you know. An unidentified key here, a few lines on some little scrap of map there... What_ do_ you think you'll be able to do with such tools, really? Especially considering how well your first attempt went."

"How did you...?"

"It's part of the package," Pansy said lowly as she made a vague gesture to her cage, and it was here that the first thread of bitterness unwound itself before Hermione. "As you've no doubt seen, the curse treated us all differently. We each have been granted different strengths and weaknesses. And here is mine." Perplexed, alarmed, and irrationally intrigued, Hermione felt something twisting her gut and couldn't help but think, _What has happened to these people? What has this curse really turned them into?_

"How does it work?" she whispered, wondering at possible laws of social etiquette and personally invasive questions about magical side effects. Admittedly, she might have felt more inclined to maintain a level of tact had it not been for Pansy's own rudeness—_two wrongs don't make a right, Hermione!_—and if not for her creeping terror: What else could this woman know? What if this woman had seen _more_? Could she know about the diary?

"It doesn't matter," Pansy sneered and crossed her arms, staring at some far-away thing beyond Hermione's shoulder. "It's magic. The point is that there _is _no science behind it. All that matters is that my abilities place me in the perfect position to be... a resource. Consider me henceforth as your guide toward freedom."

"First and foremost, I know nothing about you, nor any position that you may hold. I've never even heard a thing about you."

"As I said, my abilities allow for many an untraditional task."

"Meaning?"

"My work about the castle is often much less... visible; such is often the case for those with hands covered in dirt, is it not?"

_A spy? _Hermione wondered. A suggestive sneer cracked through Pansy's smirk, and any budding thoughts of sympathy were instantly squashed. _She enjoys this!_

"Then all the more reason for suspicion! What reasons have I to trust you?" Hermione spat. "For all I know, this could be nothing more than a trap set by the Prince himself, some test that I'm bound to fail so that he will finally have reason to finish me off once and for all."

"Isn't that what you want? To be gone from this place?" The woman smiled, but it was saccharine sweet, like the cool kiss of a knife before the plunge.

"I want to take back my life, not _end _it_._"

"And people tell me _I'm _melodramatic," Pansy laughed, and the tinkling sound grated over Hermione's senses.

"You have still not given me any reason to offer your words even a shred of consideration. Why would _you _be willing to help me escape?"

"And here Weasley told me you would be easy to reason with… so much for your logicality."

Hermione was overcome; the shock of feeling her heart being torn in such completely different directions—toward her throat, into her stomach, out the door, toward the mirror—kept her feet glued to the floor and her questioning eyes open wide.

"You can't mean—"

"Yes," Pansy stated, as patiently as she could. "I've been keeping watch over all three of your little friends, but I've been communicating mainly with Ronald Weasley."

"Ron," she breathed.

Pansy rolled her eyes, noting the newfound flush tinting the other woman's cheeks, but Hermione ignored the spiteful gesture in honor of more important matters. "They know where I am?" Hermione pushed on. "That I'm safe? They're not going to try to come and rescue me, are they? They'll only get themselves—"

"Are you going to listen or not?" Pansy snapped impatiently. "Neither the little fireball nor the scarred boyfriend know about any of this. Only Weasley knows the truth and as a result of my initiative, we've established a mutually beneficial partnership."

"What kind of partnership? And what do you mean by the 'truth'? He can't... he couldn't possibly understand..."

"You're not the only one who thinks you don't belong here," Pansy sneered distastefully, and Hermione's curiosity grew... but her attention was quickly called elsewhere. "Let's just say that a certain letter of yours caught wind and alerted your little Ginger lover boy to the _particulars _of your situation. Considering his penchant for impulsivity, I haven't confirmed your exact whereabouts. And that was incredibly stupid of you, you know."

The light blush that had spread over Hermione's cheeks at the inappropriate _lover_ comment deepened as another bout of anger flowed to the surface. "I did what I thought was best. I don't regret sending it."

"Regardless, if he'd never seen the letter from that professor, he might have never learned the true nature of Draco's curse. But now that he has, we'll have to push things along a little more quickly."

_Draco?_

Hermione shook her head slightly, trying to clear away the cloud of confusion that had swooped into her thoughts. "I still haven't agreed to anything."

"But indeed you have," Pansy smirked.

"Pushing will get you nowhere."

"All right, _fine_. The redhead said that you might need a little convincing, anyway..."

Before she knew it, Hermione was watching Pansy retreat within, her mind expanding outward in a silent summons. The sight of such an animated frame so still, so lost in focus, was an incredibly eerie experience, and Hermione forced herself to move one step closer to counter the urge to move backwards. Suddenly, a familiar call quietly sounded from beyond the window, and the next moment had Hedwig swooping through the room. She was gone again, back through the window in a matter of seconds, but not before dropping something to the floor between them. It landed against the stone with a muffled thud against Hermione's pounding ears, and fell open face up like an invitation.

"This is..."

Gingerly reaching for the familiar pages as if they might suddenly disappear, Hermione picked up the small, red book with careful fingers. When Pansy offered no further clue into this strange new development, Hermione slowly opened the cover of her favorite novel, and saw the hasty scrawl etched into the page.

_._

_._

_._

_Hermione,_

_Stay where you are and stay safe. As soon as I receive the signal, I'll come for you.  
__If you ever lose confidence, just remember your promise._

_I'll be here, waiting._

_- Ron_

.

.

.

Pansy kept still, allowing her to finish rereading the note with a tangible air of impatient expectation, but even after looking at it several times over, Hermione still couldn't believe her eyes. _Ron_, her mind called out, and her fingers trailed over the worn pages like they were the sole connection to her only lifeline; in a very real way, she supposed they were. A deep breath parted her lips as a troublesome realization came over her.

"My promise?"

Pansy shrugged indifferently. "He said you would understand." But the confusion only increased, and as if reading the aching question in Hermione's mind, Pansy released a heavy sigh, and offered her something of an explanation. "He's been carrying that thing with him everywhere. I didn't see the point, but the dumbstruck look on your face certainly explains a lot."

Hermione paused her perusing of her dearly missed treasure to send a nasty glare at the woman in the mirror. "I can only imagine the quality of your partnership," she commented dryly. "And you still have not mentioned what _you'd _be getting out of any of this."

"If you want my help, you're going to learn to stop talking so much," Pansy snapped tetchily, and Hermione's eyes narrowed into infuriated slits. "And I'm sure you'll be happy to know that while he wasn't exactly quick to warm to the idea either, he and I have a rather useful working relationship... I am, above all else, a very unique resource."

Unable to remove the searing glare from her eyes, Hermione clutched the book in her hand more tightly and cocked her head to the side in critical calculation. "There is no question in my mind regarding the underhandedness of your actions; what I question is why _I_ should trust you when you so easily betray the trust of others? For what purpose could you aim in aiding my escape? Are you not loyal to the Master or to your kingdom?"

"How dare you," Pansy spat, her voice rising with the heat**. **"My kingdom is my first priority, and my kingdom and my King are one in the same. There is not a soul living or dead, in this world or any other, that is more loyal to Draco than I."

Hermione felt something twistinside her as she was once again caught off guard by the unfamiliar name; had she ever heard Sir Snape or Madam McGonagall refer to the Master so familiarly? This, along with the gruesome sneer that contorted the girl's handsome features, only heightened Hermione's skepticism. Any questions regarding her alliances were put to rest, but Hermione's rising hope for reliability and _motive_ continued to spiral out of her reach. _Who is this girl? And what kind of connection might she have to the Master?_

_What kind of power?_

Hermione grit her teeth and glared on, keeping her gaze steady through the unexpected outburst**, **and strained for control. Too many questions, not enough options, absolutely no trust.

She was beginning to see a pattern.

"Then tell me why."

"He has made it clear, you fool," Pansy hissed through her teeth. "You are not wanted here."

"You would go against his direct orders?"

"For the sake of his wellbeing," she said venomously. "Your being here brings nothing but trouble, and I have taken it upon myself to do the honor of removing you for him."

Hermione searched the cutting angles of Pansy'sfury, reading the creases and lines of the obvious dislike etched into her features as if they were a manual, and finally knew with a strange sense of intuition that Pansy's offer was not a trap.

_Unknown ulterior motives or not_, Hermione concluded with a jolt of anticipation. _She will do all that she can to get me as far away from here as possible._

"And you expect him to reward you for your efforts?" she asked, and not kindly; the idea made her feel strangely sick.

"I wouldn't expect you to understand."

Hermione sighed, suddenly feeling lightheaded and a little dizzy. Of course she wouldn't understand. _I don't want to_, she reminded herself. But then a conversation came floating back to her, a talk through long empty corridors about languages and walking too slowly and what might have been important once but was no longer so and—_I don't _want_ to understand anymore_. _I don't._

_Right_?

"He won't trust me to keep quiet," Hermione pointed out reasonably, feeling herself being drawn in against all of her better instincts. "How do I know he just won't come chasing after me once I'm gone?"

The ugly expression quickly faded from Pansy's face, and a gratified smirk wound itself into her lips once more. "Just leave that to me. I'll get you out, and he won't ever consider looking for you again."

Hermione chewed the inside of her cheek thoughtfully; what other options did she have?

_You could be free_, her mind whispered temptingly.

"What do I have to do?" she asked, and there was already a fire of excitement and a cannonball of dread hardening in her core.

"For now, you will act as if nothing has changed. The timing will have to be perfect, and unfortunately it will be some number of weeks before we will have an opportunity. Draco will soon need to travel farther away to find game without arising suspicion in the neighboring villages, and when that time comes, we will make our move. In the meantime, Draco will be leaving on another local hunt in the next few days, and it is then that I will take you through some of the Marauders' secret passageways to learn your way around."

Hermione blinked, her mind already glazing over the unfamiliar names as a more pressing concern arose. "I am not a liar," she insisted seriously. "I've realized this about myself during my stay here; I may conjure _adequate_ lies while under extreme pressure, when necessary… but I don't _do_ things like this."

When Pansy smiled, it was genuine. A strange feeling of anticipation came over Hermione, and the blazing fire of readiness, as well as the ball of dread, threatened to explode.

Pansy seemed to notice this, and with a devious smirk, she reassured her, "That's why you have me."

Hermione allowed herself a small smirk in return.

* * *

Her thoughts were still maniacally whirling the next morning, however, and Hermione was so out of touch with her surroundings on her way down to breakfast that she actually crashed into them on at least three occasions. One particular tumble down a set of stone steps had her favoring a sore knee the next two floors down, and by the second stumble, more curses were unleashed in those few minutes alone than had ever been uttered in the entirety of her previous existence. All of this was precisely why she didn't notice the huge, hunkering, hovering form of the Master on the nearby railing until he was right beside her and—

"Morning, Granger."

—more importantly, why she inevitably let out a sharp, piercing, echoing shriek.

"Woman, you need not scream," the Master hissed angrily as Hermione covered her frantic heart. "I had assumed you understood the meaning of acute hearing."

"Well, _you_ should know better than to greet someone in such a way," she retorted through sporadic breaths, holding onto the banister with both hands; it was a great support beam for her suddenly weakknees, but it had a devastating effect on the credibility of her glare. "Suddenly appearing by a drop-invisit in the most literal sense is sure to make even the strongest of souls flinch. Not everyone is equipped with such effective sensory abilities as you are, you know."

"All too well," he said levelly, though his lip curled with strain. "You seem on edge, Granger. A rough start to your day, I presume? Or perhaps your distress began even earlier? Say… last night?"

"What an eerie thing to say," Hermione eyed him critically, hoping beyond hope that her fingers weren't shaking in paranoia. _He couldn't possibly know! You are safe—as long as you don't ruin it! _She clutched the banister tighter, gathered her wits about her, and asked, "I'm assuming you have something further to discuss, and that you did not make an insinuating comment simply for the sake of making an insinuation?"

"Let's just say that a little bucket on the sixth floor told me you came looking for me late yesterday evening."

Hermione's stomach flopped, and—_relief_—vexation erupted within her. _Damn_.

"_Acute_ hearing, Granger," he smirked, eyes alight with amusement.

_I hadn't meant to say that aloud! _ She crossed her arms defensively, mind reeling with poisonous barbs while she fumed in silent mortification. _This is why you vowed not to curse, Hermione! Once the dam breaks, it's nearly impossible to rebuild! That Blaise and Seamus and Lee and their pernicious influence! Get a grip before you lose sight of the plan!_

"Don't look so complacent," she snapped, resuming her steady pace down the corridor. "You know it's perfectly perfunctory that we meet somewhere between the third and fifth floors each afternoon—I was merely looking to see why you had broken the routine, and to ensure that I would not be found at fault for it."

"It's interesting that you should mention our routine," he said offhandedly, and the perseverance of his strange, warped sense of merriment did nothing to soothe the tenderness of her ego. Or her paranoia. "As it's actually the reason I sought you out this early morning."

"Afraid that I will treat you to your own medicine with my absence in return?" she replied irritably, and she grew even more spiteful because _that cannot be bitterness in my voice!_

"As if you could," he taunted with a haughty smirk. Despite her menacing glance, Hermione could find it within herself to objectively note that his tone was far less _I am all powerful; hear me roar!_, and much more _I am a prat, listen to me prattle, _which might have been considered a marked improvement had she not been so annoyed.

On second thought, perhaps it was not so objective, after all.

"It's true that our afternoons usually consist of a stroll about the castle, but… today I have something a little different in mind."

"You know, it's so _very_ unsurprising that you make all of the arrangements regarding when I might anticipate seeing you, while I have no say whatsoever."

"You anticipate seeing me?" he asked curiously.

"You are missing the point."

"You didn't deny it."

"Because it's true," she stated plainly, halting her steps. The Master's bewilderment registered clearly in his own faltered strides as he came to a pause beside her, and he looked at her in expectation, obviously waiting for elaboration. She sighed, renewed her pace with a roll of her eyes, and reminded him, "If not for freedom, then what else may a captive wait for?"

He expected her to finish, and thus said nothing as he matched her pace; the irony was not lost on Hermione.

"Only her captor," she said with a resigned shrug.

They walked for some minutes then, weaving in and around the inner structure of the castle in something close-to-but-not-_quite_ companionable silence. As she berated herself for allowing the conversation to trail down darker paths, Hermione wondered at the sight they must have made; she with her hand clasped loosely around her forearm behind her back and he at her side, creeping on all monstrous fours along the balustrade. The fantastic idea that this could all be merely a bizarre dream struck through her in a bolt of denial, and she would have laughed at the absurdity of it all—the prison, the lies, the plans—had the laugh not come out as a sigh.

As they neared the final staircase that would lead her to the kitchens, the Master sat back on the balls of his feet, and regarded her with his elbows atop his knees. She tried not to be impressed by his rather impressive balance, but her thoughts weren't allowed to dwell on it for very long.

"You'll want to remember your cloak this afternoon," he stated casually, though it was clear to Hermione that the liveliness had returned to his eyes. "There is a rare bout of sunshine today, but there will be snowfall as soon as sunset."

Hermione contemplated his words with a skeptical brow. "For a near-winter day, it's gorgeous outside… How can you be so sure?"

"The air," he smirked. When her dubious look only grew more dubious, he clarified, "Its scent tells me that tonight there will be snow, and so there will be snow."

"You're awfully animated this morning," she groused. "What has you in such a state?"

"Don't tell me you can't appreciate a bit of novelty, Granger."

"It depends on the nature of the novelty," she responded guardedly. "Is the novelty in question related to your strange, upward mood shift, or the undertaking that I am to experience this evening?"

"Have you not considered that it might relate to both?"

"Are you implying that you are _excited _by the prospect of tonight, your highness?"

"Don't get carried away," he warned seriously. "Simply think of it as an experiment."

"I am confused," Hermione stated, thoroughly irked. "I was under the impression that I am being kept here on account of my supposedly improvable trustworthiness, yet your words imply that I am some horrific cross between a game and an enterprise."

"Think what you will," the Master smirked again. "But do try and remember your cloak—I know common sense can sometimes be a bit difficult for you."

"No more than idle torture is for you," she muttered airily, sliding her elbows to rest against the banister and her cheek against her knuckles.

"I shall be seeing you, Granger," said the Master as he flashed a gleaming fang, and leapt upward onto the open railing of the floor above.

"Show off," she whispered, fully aware that he'd probably heard her. _Let him hear_, she thought, rolling her eyes for good measure.

But as she turned to make her way toward the smell of warm cinnamon porridge and freshly cooked eggs, she couldn't ignore the nervous energy that was still flowing through her system or her heart's whisper of caution about the flutterysensation within her...

Or, more importantly, the fleeting notion that these feelings might not actually have quite as much to do with lying and secret-keeping and betrayal and imprisonment as she'd like to believe.

* * *

_Stupid instincts_, Draco glowered an hour or so later. _They're not worth a damn._

He'd been there for less than quarter of an hour, but it was already clear to him that this trip was unnecessary. In the short time since his arrival to the well-hidden alcove along one of the highest shelves—far beyond the scope of typical mortal sight—he had heard nothing but insipid chatter amongst the servants whom were supposedly his most reasonable, and an only occasional comment from Granger whenever she deemed the conversation to be more important than her reading... a hobby which appeared rather extensive. From what he could see, she'd gone through a stack of what must have been at least twenty books. She would start one, read partly through, and then discard it before reaching the halfway mark, at which point she would start the process anew; it was clear that she was looking for something in particular, and he was almost hit with a small wave of envy—_she_ at least knew what she was looking for.

It had been many days since he had last bothered to keep such a watchful eye on her, and something within him told him that he _needed _to be within range today... But his mind and his instincts were miles apart. He did not doubt that she still harbored every intention of escaping, and he frequently wondered if her newfound compliance was merely a devious—_futile_—strategy to mislead him, but this logic stillpresented no direct explanation as to what could be making him feel so strongly about coming this close.

_There are much better things I could be doing with my time. _For example, he needed to ensure that all preparations for later that afternoon were moving according to plan... Not to mention the meeting he needed to call in order to check-in with Snape and McGonagall, both of whom had been acting rather suspiciously as of late. Quite simply, all of this sitting and waiting—both in the immediate sense and in the grander scheme of things—was making him restless. _I should visit Pansy_, he decided.

Just as one foot slipped over the edge, however, a stray piece of conversation floated past his ears that put those thoughts to rest.

"It's no use, Hermione," said one of the servants from below: Thompson, maybe? "All official records of the Sorting process were destroyed. All we have is what we found yesterday, and we all know that blunder was nothing short of a scholarly prank."

"Unbelievable. An archive of thousandsof books, and we can't find a single decent account of what determined placement in any of the four Hogwarts Houses? Aren't we _inside _Hogwarts?"

"What _used_ to be Hogwarts, love." Draco would recognize thatvoice anywhere, and his brows slanted in sneerful recognition; since when was Zabini quite _this _familiar with their guest of honor?

"This is absurd... How am I supposed to trust the two cents provided by a student's plaything?"

"You know, I've been thinking about all of this really seriously, and I have to say that... well, actually, I do believe that the Sorting Hat could be... rather accurate," said the artist.

"I agree," said the Loony-who's-it girl. "I think we fit quite nicely into each of the Houses it assigned to us. While Neville would have been happy to have been a part of Hufflepuff—"

"While I can't complain about _my_ placement, I still say this was rigged! There is no _way _Longbottom is in Gryffindor!"

"Lay off, Blaise!" Neville cried weakly, and then considered him more fully. "There is nothing wrong with Hufflepuff! But I guess I could only expect such intolerance as this from a _Slytherin_ like you."

"Why, you little—"

_Blundering idiots, _Draco's mind raged. _What do they think they're doing_? His gut was thoroughly unsettled by the thought of Granger being associated with any of the Houses; weren't there enough obstacles in his path already? It would be too much to hope that she would be ever granted entrance into the once-treasured domain of his forefathers, but if she were actually placed in an _unthinkable_ House...? However stupid and wildly inaccurate the piece of rubbish that deemed it so?

_Unthinkable, _a thousand voices whispered. _Blood traitor, filthy, scum-_

"Enough, you two," said that other one, the artist or whoever. "Just because we have a bunch of new labels, it doesn't mean that we have to start reliving the rivalry."

"Oh, whatever, _Gryffindor. _You just want to avoid the truth behind which House is best!"

"Which is clearly _not_ Slytherin," Neville muttered peevishly.

"Blaise. Neville," Hermione said softly, clearly attempting to be the voice of reason. "Don't you think that perhaps you're being a bit sensitive? I mean, neither Luna nor I are getting all out of sorts about _our _Houses."

_Which is it?_ Draco desperately wondered, begging beyond belief—beyond religion, beyond magic, beyond _Salazar_—that she was nota part of _that House. _For her to be deemedSlytherin would mean a level of redemption for their coming union, however slight, but it was nothing more than a foolish pipe dream; Ravenclaw would be still be tolerable, though it would not appeal to the hundreds of generations of expectation and tradition; Hufflepuff would be an embarrassment, would make him the disgrace and laughingstock of his ancestors' spirits for ages, though it would not be wholly unmanageable... But if she were even remotely associated with _that _House?

"Anywhere but there," Draco whispered aloud from high above, unable to contain his dread.

"She's right," said the Loony girl. "I was rather hoping to be with the loyal troop, but I'm just as content to be Ravenclaw." Zabini coughed, but only Draco's ears were keen enough to catch the harsh sounds of "_rigged_" beneath his breath.

"And I was rather drawn to Ravenclaw myself," said Hermione, who was obviously still a little disappointed with the outcome, despite her efforts to be a decent role model for his hopeless servants.

_What are you? _

And yet... Somehow he already knew, had already known all along; he could already feel his father thrashing in his grave.

"But you are the picture of Gryffindor, Hermione!" contested the paintbrush, and Draco's stomach tightened considerably. "I mean, I certainly had my bets on Ravenclaw at first as well, but really, you exemplify all that is good and Gryffindor!"

"I would watch your tongue if I were you, Thomas," said Zabini sourly.

"At least mine isn't split," the artist jabbed.

"Better split than splintered."

"_Too_ far, Blaise. You take that back!"

"I don't even understand what any of this means," Hermione sighed.

"Well, since Dean is made almost entirely of wood—"

"_No_," Hermione persisted, leveling the others with a serious glance. This Gryffindor thing. I was so curious about the castle and its history, but now I regret ever finding this stupid parchment scroll. What do these Houses have to do with anything? I understand that they represent the four founders, yes, but all of these students attended the _same_ school, didn't they? Why create divisions that would just encourage alienation or hostility? Who says we can't have traces of _each _House in our personalities?"

"And that," said Blaise, as he and the others sat in a silent kind of awe. "Is precisely why you're in Gryffindor."

"But I still don't even know what that means!" Hermione snapped. There was an awkward moment of jumbled voices as the servants attempted to reassure her, but after a deep breath, Hermione had collected her thoughts and regained enough composure to hint at what had _really _been bothering her about her placement. "I mean...especially with everything that's been happening as of late, I certainly don't _feel _verybrave."

"Hermione..." the little pot began, but he was unable to finish.

"Maybe it would help if you were to try Sorting your friends from back home," said the little blue book. "It might help you put it all back into perspective—this can be a lot to take in, after all." Draco's eyes narrowed at her choice of words; did she always speak with such vagueness?

But Hermione merely breathed a short, hollow laugh. "Is it any surprise that I would immediately place them in mine, regardless of where they might otherwise be suited?"

"Perhaps you all belong in Gryffindor regardless of your prior connections," Neville suggested. "But it wouldn't really matter, since you all would still be friends no matter what your Houses were."

"Perhaps," Granger said softly, but her eyes were already trailing patterns along the lacy wisps of frost at the window's corners.

"Well, go on then," Zabini encouraged her, his previous argument almost entirely forgotten. "What about our gin-tolerating yet not gin-loving Ginny?"

Draco saw Granger turn to the candlestick with a trace of a smile then, and his eyes narrowed further of their own accord. "You are positively ridiculous," she told Zabini, but there was something like gratitude shining in her eyes.

"Don't avoid the question," Zabini lightly scolded, smile patient but gaze stern.

Granger released another scoff and a shrug, and Draco could see that she was considering it, although it was obviously in spite of her better judgment. After a long pause and a heavy swallow, Granger relented. "How is it even possible to describe them?" she laughed nervously, and her voice rang with hesitation. However, much to Draco's surprise, and perhaps to hers as well, once she began... She couldn't find it within herself to stop.

"Ginny... Well, Ginny is everything you could ask for in a friend, and then some things that you wouldn't think to ask for. She's funny and caring and beautiful, which is why the world loves her, but she's smart and patient and open-minded and accepting, which is all the more reason why I love her. She's tough and direct and unyielding at times, but not enough to let herself forget that... That family is one of the most important things to hold onto in this world, and she doesn't often let others forget it either. She's got a wicked right hook that I was secretly coached on while we were younger—so many times that I've lost count—but she has a natural strength and _fire _that I'll never find so easily... I was always thought to have quite the temper by those who knew me best, but against her endless stubbornness, I seem like a right pushover... She would defend me to the death, even if she knew I was dead-wrong. She could easily be in any of them—but I would bet my horse on Hufflepuff or, of course, Gryffindor.

"Harry _is_ Gryffindor, without a doubt; he so embodies what Gryffindor claims to be that I couldn't imagine a better example anywhere of anyone fitting so perfectly into such a noble family. He has suffered, but he has _lived_, and he has taught me how to try to do the same. He is tall and awkward in all of the ways that lanky young men are, and through all of that lingering, buried pain is an underlying sense of bitterness and anger that sometimes threatens to tear him apart, but never apart _from_ us... Harry is always reminding us of how precious we are to him, through whatever means, and there is no question in my mind as to what lengths he would be willing to go—to what extent he would be willing to sacrifice his own preciousness—to protect and to keep safe the remaining loved ones around him. He is often terrified, absolutely mad with grief over a thousand or other things, but he knows that, with us, he is unstoppable... And being so close to him makes others believe that they can achieve greatness, too." She paused then, overcome by the warmth of a smile and a welcome epiphany. "If I ever doubt again what it means to be in this House, I will only have to take one look at Harry's passion, to see his determination, and I will know what it means to be in Gryffindor."

He could hear a shaky exhale, and it was another moment before she could continue. "And then there's Ron," she sighed. "Who may be the most difficult to describe of them all."

When the pause had stretched on long enough, and Zabini could see that she was indeed at a loss for words, he could not he could not help but ask, "Our gin-loving friend? I think he might honestly be a favorite."

Hermione laughed a pure, genuine laugh, but it was laced with all the misery of a confused and conflicted child. "But he's so much more than that," she promised them through a watery smile. "Sure, all I've mostly done for the last decade or so has been to yell at him or scold him or boss him around... And most of the time, he's had the right sense to follow my lead." She laughed again, caught up in one or maybe one hundred memories as she rested her temple against the glass, and Draco wondered at the awful sensation worming itself through his gut. "But he always tries _so hard_... And it's impossible not to be in total awe when he actually sets his mind to something and applies himself. Whereas Harry makes me feel like I want to make myself stronger, Ron makes me feel like... Like I _am _strong, so long as I remember that I am. With Harry, we all know that together, as a collective unit, as a _trio_, our friendship makes us unbreakable... But Ron also reminds me that not everythingshould always be left to strength in numbers, or to fate, you know? Things always seem to come naturally to Harry, but never so simply for Ron... His perseverance reminds me that, sometimes, it's more about how you've fought rather than what you've conquered. And then he is _so _single-minded that sometimes the only way I can cope is to envision him trapped inside some soundless cage," she shook her head, clearing away her private images. "But he is just as steadfast in holding true to what's most important, and he is so... _persistent._" Her voice grew soft. "And... You know that you can always rely on him... To stay true to his word because..."

_Because...?_

"Because he doesn't give up."

It was a long, heavy moment before Draco realized that each of them were scarcely breathing; he was only able to release a shallow exhale when Lovegood inevitably carried the conversation onward, though the tension did not yet leave his broad boulders.

"You miss them terribly," the book stated simply, though it was no simple sentiment to convey.

"So much it hurts," Granger whispered, and Draco had the strangest feeling that perhaps she was not referring merely to the three she had just described. "Most days it's like a physical ache that weighs me down, and I can't yet decide if the passage of time is causing the muscles to atrophy, or to strengthen."

"You don't always have to carry the burden alone... But we understand that sometimes such a journey is best traveled in solitude," Luna said enigmatically, her gaze as glassy and unfocused as ever. The words seemed to bring some comfort to Granger, however, because she turned to the little book then, and pinned her with one of the most curious stares—as if everything she had ever known about the crazy little creature up until that point had suddenly shifted.

And rather abruptly, it was as if a switch had been pulled, and Granger came to. She glanced around at the worried stares of her acquaintances, peered about in various places among her vast surroundings, and blinked away the thoughts that had clouded her awareness. She laughed, though it wasn't clear at what, and she apologized for being so out of sorts. "I suppose this exam took a lot more out of me than I expected."

"It happens to the best of us, my dear," said the ever-obnoxious Zabini. "But we'll have you perked up again in no time! Why don't we try something a little more energizing this afternoon?"

"Energizing?" asked a wary Thomas—_Thomas, yes, that's the bloody name_—who seemed to be in need of a little more recovery time than what Zabini or Lovegood had required after such a draining discussion.

"Why don't we—" attempted Neville, but Blaise had already cut right back in.

"I've got a jolly good idea. What would you say to playing a prank on McGoogle, eh? Granted it won't be like the good old days of shoving crickets down the back of her dress trail while we were apprentices, but we can at least try, right?"

"Blaise!"

"I've got it! We'll make her _the Sorting Hat_! Get it? Let's take this exam and shove it—"

"Blaise! _Zabini_!" Hermione's near-shriek grated so ferociously against Draco's senses that his eyesight actually grew blurry. "Do _not _finish that sentence! I can't believe you would even—just think about what you're—I can't even—absolutely _appalled_!"

"But, Hermione, it's all in harmless, good old—"

"Better to quit while ahead, Blaise," Thomas whispered a warning as Hermione continued to rant to a sympathetic, nodding Neville about the disrespectfulness of it all. "Face it, my friend... Your puppy dog eyes haven't worked on her yet, and they're not going to start working now. You're out of luck."

"Stupid, unreliable wax," Zabini muttered under his breath. "But are you still in?"

Dean glanced surreptitiously to an otherwise preoccupied Granger; Neville's eyes had grown wide and fearful at the forcefulness of her speech. "I don't want to leave her just yet, not when she's just started opening up so fully... But maybe she could use some time to herself, no? Ah, what the hell—grab Seamus for luck and I'll meet you downstairs in quarter of an hour. You get us caught and I'll deny that it ever even crossed my mind."

"How very Slytherin of you, my friend!" Blaise noted appreciatively.

"Whatever. Just keep moving!"

And as Granger raged out through the library doors, no doubt to warn his stewardess of the unimaginable horrors awaiting her, his servants trailed after her with all of the self-determination of an imprinted duckling. Resetting his priorities in proper order, he dropped the thirty or so feet to the ground, and landed softly against the expensive padding of plush carpet, releasing an aggravated huff as the pads of his fingers melted into the thread work. With a scowl set firmly in place, Draco slowly stalked his way through the odd stacks of encyclopedias and tomes, tapping his fingers over the lacquered tabletops as he passed. When he allowed a claw to drag along the cover of a dusty grey atlas at the corner of the girl's worktable, he enjoyed the way the sliced fabric released and curled in on itself.

He inspected the titles with barely a passing glance—_What could she possibly hope to gain from annotating_ _Hogwarts: A History__?_—and flipped through the pages of her notes with only mild interest. Aside from the fact that even a sea lion could surely best her in handwriting, there was nothing much to be learned about the scatterbrained girl through her mad peasant scrawl. Eventually, Draco's gaze settled on what his servants had called _The Sorting Hat._

His scowl deepened.

"Misses them terribly?" he muttered darkly with a scoff, snatching a fraying novel from the nearest pile and absentmindedly thumbing through the yellowed pages. He tossed it over his shoulder, and soon his fingers were already picking at another. This time, however, his carelessness resulted in half of the pages being shorn from an accidental swipe of his claws, and soon this book was sent flying much farther than the first.

_Pansy will know more about these farmhands, _he thought, feeling his skin crawl beneath his fur._ I will visit her and get to the bottom of this_, he decided, mind stiff with certainty... yet he did not move. His body's instincts were once again betraying the higher order of rational thought and in the space of indecision between _this form_ and his reasoning, his system was already pumping with adrenaline. Heaving chest, bursting heart, rumbling throat, burning blood—_always, always the same._

Releasing a snarl in frustration, his arm flew out to the side, sending a nearby tower of books every which way. He breathed deeply again and again, willing his lungs to open and his body to calm, and after some minutes, he finally felt himself return to a much more manageable state. Throat rasping as he struggled to choke down air, he gave a shake of his clouded mind, and **stormed **out the doors. When he came to the secret passageway that would allow him to access a much quicker route to the upper floors than the roundabout corridors, he hesitated. _To Pansy, _his reminded himself in aggravation. _I will not allow myself to remain ignorant of her village idiots any longer. I am going to Pansy so that I may be rid of these nuisances here and now._

Yet with another snarl, he continued onward, bypassing the shortcut without a second glance. He roamed the halls until he came across a wing that been closed off completely, having been abandoned when it became clear that maintenance would be impossible, and Draco allowed himself to pace the empty stretch of fallen timber and dusty cobwebs in the dark. He needed to get his thoughts in order before initiating any further moves, he reasoned; if he wanted to be of any use, he needed to get himself under control, and he knew by now that Pansy would only fuel the fire.

The memory of Granger smiling in remembrance flashed before his eyes, and his frame jerked as if wanting to rid of itself of an unmistakable itch. He wasn't an idiot; he _knew _that she had other obligations, other people, another _life_. He certainly hadn't cared about such things before. In the beginning, that she had mourned the loss of her freedom had been nothing but a thorn in his side, and since their arrangement, he'd had no reason to think of it again. The guilt he had felt upon seeing her tears in the library were already mistakes that he had dealt with, and for a short moment Draco wondered if the tightness of his skin might be the same breed of guilt and shame that he had felt that day. But that couldn't be it; though confusion was indeed present, this anger was not inspired by cognitive dissonance nor a sense of moral failure... Then what was the problem? The problem was that Draco understood perfectly _what_ was driving him into fury, but not _why_. The problem was that his anger shouldn't have been an actual issue, that it should have been much more of an irritant, but instead, it was driving him past the point of reason regardless of its shape. And through it all, its source was very clear.

_I feel as though I have hated them my whole life._

Draco had never been known for warmth or an amicable personality; in fact, he'd had no trouble acquiring an impressive list of enemies during the short years of his previous existence-_though I certainly had _help, _didn't I?_-and further, had not been known for forgiveness... But Draco knew that one simply did not enter a library without mortal enemies and leave thirty minutes later feeling as though he was being blindsided by all the bitterness and spite and hatred of lifelong rivals.

He tore at the wall with his claws, leaving deep, screaming gashes in its midst. His temperament had certainly never hinted at patience, and he had been known to be a rather... _ambitious_ child, one who often employed cunning schemes and replaceablepawns to acquire what he wanted, but the level of animosity between he and any of his **rivals** had always been of the professional sort._ But this? _

_These inbred hicks_... Obviously, they posed no serious threat to his plans, especially not when they were so far from learning the truth of her whereabouts, so his hatred was not borne from paranoia; they had not offended him in any way, other than the indirect annoyances they presented by merely existing; they were inferior in so many different lights, so below him from every angle, that he couldn't possibly think of them in competitive terms, or desire anything in their possession-the word _jealousy _passed through his mind like a flying gnat, and he barked aloud in laughter.

But he recalled the way she had spoken of them, lauded them not only with language but also in tone and expression. Was this merely a matter of respect then? That her drastic change in demeanor, the pleasure with which she remembered and shared her memories, had offered a blow to his pride? _That can't be all_. Was it that she shared so much of herself with his servants, but still withheld so much from himself? The Master's steps slowly came to a stop.

_Then why do I feel such animosity for _them_? _

A hot puff of air escaped his nostrils, and he stalked down the hallway, pacing the stones with heavy as he was to admit it, the conversation with Snape and McGonagall from the day before had been eating away at him all through the hunt, so much that he'd barely found anything of substance to quench his cravings... As he had always been blessed with the good sense and wherewithal in ways of circumventing unfortunate endings, he had not shared their debilitating fear of time. After all, at one point not so long ago, his strongest concern was whether or not he would be capable of withstanding her presence without growing physically ill. Yet while the desperation that so obviously held his servants in an iron grip was not yet forcing its hold over his own thinking, he couldn't deny that even as the rapport between he and Granger developed, other challenges continued to arise, and time was quickly becoming a much more pressing issue.

And now it seemed that the thickest thorn in his side had been joined by _three_ new ones.

Draco was suddenly hit with a memory of the day before the hunt, in which he'd made a rather mocking comment on the balcony about many young farm boys pursuing her... He snapped his head to the side in a quick jerk of irritation, and vowed to stop allowing such foolish, pointless considerations any room in his mind. He had a scheme to fulfill and a castle to oversee, and he would not waste any further time on those so far beneath him.

Besides, he had plans with Granger that needed attending to.

* * *

**End Note: **I'd originally planned to finally reveal Draco's plans in this chapter, but I'm trying to stay true to my vow of shorter installments. On the bright side, the next part is 98% done and should be out by next weekend. (FOR REAL, I PROMISE.) What does this mean for you? Almost 8,000 words of legitimate, uninterrupted Dramione interaction. Ta-da! Any guesses as to what his plans might be? Share your predictions with me in the meantime!

**Next Chapter Preview:**

"An important lesson for you, Granger," he said as he... **[See Chapter 22]** "You should be very careful about what you say around me." He turned back to her then, with a strange yet not entirely unfamiliar intensity to his eyes, and Hermione felt herself go still. There was no threat, but her breath mysteriously abandoned her anyway.

"Right," she whispered.

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Review, please! :P Fuel the author!


	22. Namesakes & Monikers

**Disclaimer: **This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. The plot is from Disney's version of Beauty and the Beast and any other things specified, and I'm not making any profits from this fic. Similarly, none of the song lyrics posted here are my own, and have received proper credit at the beginning of each respective chapter.

**Author's Note: **_4/23/12. _At least the updates are coming quicker and quicker with each chapter, yes?

**ALSO, PLEASE NOTE: **I've been debating for at least six months now whether or not it was too late in the story for me to change the characters' ages... I had not planned all that far in ahead when this project first took hold and now that I have a much clearer vision of where I want the characters to end up, I know for certain that I wish I had originally made them a little older. (Hindsight is 20/20 and all.) To make up for my lack of foresight and to prevent any further hitches in my sanity, I am going to say "to hell with it," and change the ages.

Thus, from this point forward, please (disregard the awkwardness of my request and) try your best to envision Draco as twenty-one, Hermione as twenty, and all of the other characters as appropriately matching in their respective ages. Please do not be confused or alarmed by any future references to these characters of being marked as older, and please note that I am already going to go back through and edit the layouts of each chapter within the next few days anyway, so I will make all of the necessary changes to their ages as well in the previous installments as well. Thank you for your flexibility and understanding!

* * *

**Namesakes & Monikers**

* * *

_Just sit tight, don't you even think about going anywhere.  
__Stay where you are, open up your eyes to what's all already there.  
_

_What I'm about to tell you, what I'm about to say,  
__Don't even let it_ _throw ya,  
__It just might change your day._

_We're living in a charmed life,  
__You and I, a charmed life._

"Charmed Life" - **Joy Williams**

* * *

_Until a twosome once again becomes my face..._

"How odd," Hermione whispered.

She took one more cursory glance around her room to ensure that she was alone and then scanned the lines of Lupin's letter with even sharper eyes, trying to keep her mind open and her stream of consciousness flowing.

.

.

.

_**I am full, but not yet satisfied.  
For me, just once is not enough.**_

_**'Tis a pity then, that a twosome I must wait,  
until a twosome once again becomes my face.**_

.

.

.

_Perhaps it refers to a transformation similar to the Master's? In that there are two faces or forms? But it talks about dissatisfaction in having only experienced something once. Maybe it has to do with greed... but how would that relate to Lupin's research?_

With a frustrated huff, Hermione left her seat by the window to thumb through the stack of library books she had deposited on the writing desk that morning. She folded the letter and slipped it inside the pocket of the sweater she wore—one that the Wardrobe Twins never failed to voice their vehement disapproval of—and absently flipped through a volume of fables and folktales. When the collection did nothing but stain her fingers with ink, she set it aside and started pulling other books at random. The lines kept fruitlessly replaying in her mind, and by the time she realized that she was no longer actively reading what she put in front of her face, a knock sounded at the door.

With a quick start, Hermione hurriedly righted everything about the writing desk and called out, "Who is it?"

"But a humble servant, miss!"

Hermione faltered, for the visitor on the other side of the door sounded so very young... and as if she were carrying something heavy. Rushing to open the door and relieve the little servant of her burden, Hermione greeted the new face with a smile and immediately knelt to the floor.

"For you, Miss Hermione!" the little feather duster cried, swaying precariously under the weight of an old book.

"You poor thing!" Hermione lamented as she gently took the item from the servant. "Did you carry this all the way up from the library?"

"It was nothing, I assure you! It is always a pleasure to help Miss Hermione!"

Hermione, however, did not agree, and so her returning smile was completed with a measure of force. She thanked the servant sincerely and watched in concern as the small thing frisked away happily down the hall from where she came. She was so caught up in her thoughts about fairness and gratitude and _what does it mean to be happy? _that she almost didn't recognize the book in her lap when she glanced down at the title.

"Ah!" she cried in delight, clutching the tattered bindings in her grasp. "The almanac!"

"Oh, miss!" Hermione looked up at the sudden call and was surprised to see that the tiny feather duster had paused at the corner at the very end of the corridor. "I have also been instructed to inform you that your presence is requested at the Grand Staircase in ten minutes' time. Have a lovely day, Miss Hermione!"

Her fingers stilled, but the sudden fluttering in her stomach began reaching new levels of turbulence. She remained in her spot on the floor for the first few calming breaths, and it was only the startling sound of the wind against the nearby windowpanes that called her back to action.

_Just like any other day, _Hermione reminded herself. _You must act as if nothing has changed. Follow Pansy's instructions. This will be just like any other walk through the castle. Surprise or no surprise, there is no reason for you to think of this outing as any different._

But as Hermione returned to her bedchambers to prepare herself, and as the tumultuous butterflies only intensified the flight patterns throughout her insides, she had no choice but to admit a very real truth.

There was already _much_ about this day that made it wholly, unavoidably different.

* * *

"Hello, you," Harry whispered.

He folded the crumpled portrait, hiding the fading lines of charcoal—_the closest I will ever come to having real memories of them_—from no one in particular, and slowly set it aside. His movements were slow and fluid, allowing plenty of time for the creature perched on his sill to assess his actions; there wasn't any guarantee that it wouldn't choose to fly off anyway, but Harry wasn't the type to sit back and wait for others to make the decisions. It was because of this that he found himself but an arm's length away from the window, a small snack biscuit secured between the first digits of his middle and forefinger, when he cautiously extended his reach... Harry had spent enough time with Hagrid to be wary of pecking, after all.

"Back again?" he smiled slightly, gently pressing the peace offering through the air. _So soon?_

The small bird, beautiful in its austere and serene glory, tilted its head to the side in what Harry irrationally—instinctively—understood as consideration, and then took the treat from his fingers in such a quick movement that Harry couldn't be sure whether or not she'd nipped him this time.

_How do you figure it's a she, anyway?_

Maybe he had picked up a few tricks from all of his time spent in Hagrid's hut with regards to poultry? Or maybe he was just making it up... but it didn't really matter if the snowy owl was a female or really just a rat in disguise when it was providing a such a convenient, fascinating distraction from his real troubles, now did it?

"Where did you come from?" he asked the bird curiously as it—_she—_picked away at the crumbs now littering the wooden grain. "I've never seen a species quite like you... at least, definitely not in this area. I'm sure Hagrid would love to see you."

He chanced it, raising his fingertips to the soft fluff of snowy feathers at the base of her swiveling neck, but all too soon the crumbs were gone, and as fate would seem to have it, so was Harry's stash of biscuits. The owl took one look at Harry's empty hands, sent him what could only be described as an accusatory—_apologetic?_—stare, and then descended from his window in what Harry recognized from years of friendship with Hermione as a huff.

_So much for my distraction_, he thought tiredly. He didn't need to glance back at his bed to know that his most precious possession was still there, his most tangible recollection of barely-there memories of a long-ago family and love, resting against the worn weavings of thread that made up his tattered blanket.

_I wonder... Where does Hermione keep the portraits of __her_ _parents?_

Harry pushed his glasses back to the bridge of his nose with a sigh and fell back onto the bed. He vowed to have Dobby bake an extra batch the next morning.

* * *

"You again," Ron groaned.

The snowy owl tilted her head to the side in speculation, but this only made Ron's face scrunch more tightly. "I still don't trust you," he reminded her with a stern finger. "And where is that little friend of yours?"

"Leave Hedwig alone," Pansy sighed from Hermione's mirror in the parlor. "Midas has been kept on call for the Master in order to lessen any suspicion. You won't have to see him again anytime soon, so you can put your petulant grudges to rest."

**"**I _knew_ that other one was fishy," Ron crossed his arms, sliding into a seat over the armrest of a chair.

"And you're going to have to stop this resistance to magic if you want to better understand what's happening," she scolded, but it came out closer to a whine.

"I've already accepted _your_ weirdness, haven't I?" he vaguely gestured at the mirror, and Pansy's eyes narrowed. "Anyway, I want to know what Hermione sent back in return."

She bristled at his tone, but forced a calming breath through her lungs and said, "She was not allowed to respond."

"_What_?"

"It is unsafe for anything but one-way correspondence," Pansy spoke evenly, ignoring the violent churning of fury in her stomach at having been spoken to in such a way. She could still feel her skin crawling at the changes that had recently taken place in the dynamics of their partnership after the professor's letter, and every word from his mouth only seemed to tip the balance further. _And it's never in my favor, _she frowned._ Pansy Parkinson, what have you done to yourself? You swore when you gained these powers that you would never allow yourself to be subjected to such treatment again._

It tasted of bitter long-ago memories of hiding in the kitchens during balls and escaping the critical stares of the young noblewomen who belittled her calloused hands and chapped lips as if it were a sport. Pansy would grin and bear their taunts, doing as a good and loyal servant should, always seething beneath the surface and just _waiting_ for the day that her poisonous words might miraculously be released upon her superiors. As long as she could privately entertain her despicable thoughts—_"I wonder what their blood would look like on my hands"_—she could go about her work with some shred of peace, waiting for the guests' departure... or until Draco could inevitably come and rescue her. It was not unusual for him to suddenly order her to take leave of ballroom or kitchen duties in order to tidy up his quarters or fulfill some other unnecessary task, which she would gratefully take her time doing until he could retire from the ball and retrieve her.

Pansy smiled at the memories of being secretly allowed to share the tea that she brought to him after a long night of socializing with those _sharp-clawed, harpy monsters__**, **_as he called them, and then dutifully listening to his complaints that his father's insistence in finding a suitable match was growing ever more fervent. She remembered pretending not to see how, as they grew older, he would take those _sharp-clawed, harpy monsters _into empty closets or rooms one by one, evening after evening, and she would wait all night, wondering in agony but always refusing to cry. _This is his life, and this is mine. I understand my place. This is the way it is._

She remembered being invited to join him at the threshold of the balcony—but never openly outside, lest they be seen—where she could let her imagination run wild while he spoke to her about all the things that he couldn't share with anyone else. That he _wouldn't _share with anyone else. And she listened to all of it without question, without complaint, even to the stories she couldn't bear to hear or the news she'd already learned for herself, because that was what he needed and that was what she _did _and—

"What a load of crock."

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Even more irritably than before, she replied, "It is one thing for Hedwig to be spotted on a retrieval mission in which she is acquiring an item for the castle, but it would be another thing entirely for us to be caught sending an item _outbound... _To whom would the Prince send a message? If we were caught, it wouldn't matter what was being sent or to whom—the end result would be disastrous."

"So you're saying that although I can still send Hermione messages when necessary, I can't receive so much as a _scrap_ of parchment...Bloody hell—can't anybody around here do anything the normal way? I'm tired of this freak show**.**"

Pansy's scowl deepened. "You're in the thick of it with all of us, you know, which makes you no better." _Find a way to turn the tables, and do it soon! Make him eat his words. Make him remember who is the one with the _real _power._

Ron sighed and roughly shoved a hand through his mop of hair. "I didn't mean it like that," he said lowly, and he sounded so contrite that Pansy paused in spite of herself. "I'm just... frustrated. I'm upset. And angry." He jerked himself upright, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began to briskly pace about the room. "I'm angry."

"I'd already gathered as much," she commented snidely, lifting her nose into the air.

"Give me a minute to get it out, will you?" he snapped, never once breaking his stride. "I'm not used to talking about things like this."

"Surely you jest," she intoned dryly.

"Seriously, will you shut up? I'm trying to apologize!"

Pansy blinked, wishing she were more annoyed at having been caught off guard instead of just surprised. To hide her moment of weakness, she haughtily bit out, "For being the incompetent buffoon that you are?"

"No, look, I... Well, I'm sorry for... for—"

"_Spit it out, _Ginger."

"For treating you like dirt, all right?" he snapped in exasperation, throwing his hands up in frustration, and Pansy blinked, suddenly feeling very lost. He quickened his pace, but his eyes remained glued to the floor. "I can't tell anyone about any of this and I'm awful at sorting out things on my own and since you're the only other person on the planet who knows, I just—and it's only naturalfor me to—I just can't stop myself!" he gestured madly again, looking at her with his ruffled state and pleading eyes. "I'm still _seriously_ disturbed by all of this, and I'm practically killing myself with all the worrying I'm doing over Hermione and the fact that I have _no idea what the hell is going on_, and on top of it all, I still can't believe that Hermione—out of all of the people she could have contacted—decided to send a message to _Lupin_!"

"As opposed to you?" she asked, hoping unrealistically that she sounded bored and unaffected instead of whatever else it was that she was feeling.

"Yeah," he sighed, defeated, and Pansy looked on in confusion. "And because you're the only one I've got, I've been taking out everything on you... Don't get me wrong, I'm still furious about what you hid from me," he suddenly sent her a glare, but it seemed to wither away. "But I should still know better."

"Is that your idea of an apology?" she remarked with obvious dissatisfaction, if only because in a strange way, she felt that part of her ire had already been appeased.

"Unfortunately, yeah. That's all I've got," he shrugged in dismay, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as if the feeling of his own inadequacy had finally taken on a painful edge. Pansy's terse expression slackened as she considered the heavy tension set in the lines of his broad shoulders and the way his fists clenched and unclenched in the fidgety mess that he'd become. "I bet Hermione would wring my neck if she heard what I've said to you," he laughed dejectedly, running his fingers through his hair once more, and Pansy chewed the inside of her cheek in thought.

_He obviously doesn't know her very well, if he thinks she is incapable of the same cutting language as he. _This speculation affected her more than she would have liked, but before she could dig any deeper into her thoughts, another sigh from across the room brushed past her ears. She took a deep breath, tried to relax, and decided that one moment of mercy might be something she had to give, after all.

"It's because she promised the castle inhabitants that she would look into a cure," she said quietly. When Ron turned to her in surprise, she clarified, "She apparently thought that this professor was someone who might be able to help us break the curse. It's why she contacted him."

Ron took a moment to process this, and Pansy knew the precise moment he had fully digested the reality of her statement; he scoffed in irritation, a cross between acquiescence and his general crudeness of _I guess I've got no choice. _"Leave it to Hermione to wind up trying to clean a mess that isn't hers."

Pansy watched, but said nothing.

"She took a risk," Ron continued on seriously. "Lupin was in the city, and she knew that he may or may not have known about her disappearance, but she made the gamble anyway… unless she'd been hoping that Lupin had already known about her having gone missing, and that he would reach out to Little Whinging once he received her mysterious letter? But then why wouldn't she have called out for assistance directly?"

"I've already told you her intentions," Pansy observed in confusion. "Why are you having such a difficult time believing them? You've already said that her actions were well within her character."

Ron paused, gnawing on his cheek, and Pansy wondered if he would actually share the thoughts that were troubling him, before coming to the startling realization that she might actually _want _to know... and not for the typical personal gain that insight usually brought her. She was pulled out of her revelation by his voice, and she listened with renewed concern as he made an even more worrisome observation:

"Because if what you say about Hermione's intentions are true, and that her letter was really only meant to be an acquisition of knowledge... it indicates that, at least in that moment, escape _wasn't_ her first priority."

Pansy swallowed, thinking over his words with newfound alarm. _The imbecile is right_, she thought distractedly, licking her lips as Ron rambled on about the possibility of Hermione having used some special code to alert Lupin to her imprisonment. The redhead was merely stretching the possibilities now, still clinging to his hope and his trust placed within their childhood bonds, but Pansy knew better, and so she was all the more alarmed by this news.

"This just figures, doesn't it?" Ron shook his head in dismay, and he sunk himself onto the couch. "This is so like her—always putting the well-being of others before her own. Whether it's for my sister, or these castle dwellers, or her stupid horse, who was probably the one who got her into this mess in the first place, she never—"

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm telling you, Hermione doesn't know when—"

"No, no, the part about her horse."

Ron's brows scrunched together, and the look he gave Pansy told her that he thought she was daft, but she couldn't be bothered by it; she could barely be bothered to breathe. "It's my theory as to why she even wound up in the forest in the first place."

"_What_ is?"

"Well," Ron trailed on, obviously growing more weary and tired with each word, despite it only being mid-afternoon. _He must have been working both farms all day_, she realized. "When we arrived here after having first noticed that something was wrong with her absence, we found Auror, her prize horse, out in the open pasture with the gate wide open." He turned his gaze toward Pansy then, lids heavy with oncoming sleep, and said with utmost certainty, "Hermione would never let that dumb horse stay out in the cold. He probably got out, and she must have spent the whole damn night chasing after him."

Pansy's face contorted with the force of a million different dismissals, but as she watched the redhead blink sleepily from his spot on the couch, she couldn't manage to get any of them out. _It would be impossible for any animal to willingly enter the Forbidden Forest! There has been an enchantment on the castle for ages that keeps all away, aside from the royal messenger owls who are summoned to the castle, one that was placed by a medieval wizard centuries ago. Unless... unless an animal had help?_

"But it would mean that the horse would had to have..." Pansy trailed off curiously, halting her words with a nervous glance at Ron on the couch, before relaxing marginally at seeing him already almost asleep.

_Midas must have been in contact with the horse, _her frantic mind supplied. _Perhaps this was staged from the very beginning? Of course—how __else__ would the girl have found the castle? No one else has even come close..._ But she could barely grasp the concept, and she didn't even know what to do with that idea—_or how, if true, it might be __used_—so she held on to it for later.

Steadying herself with a deep breath, she called out to him. "Ginger."

"Mm?"

"You should write back to Lupin," she quietly urged. "Send a single letter addressed to him as a response from both Hermione _and_ yourself, so as not to cause any suspicion."

"Right," he mumbled, eyes still closed.

"Ginger, did you even hear what I said?"

"Yes," he groaned and then shifted on the couch. "Letter to Lupin. Tomorrow. Got it. Goodnight, Pansy."

She opened her mouth to say something more but, afraid of what she might reveal, thought better of it and let her lips silently close. She nodded softly to no one in particular and took her leave.

It didn't escape her notice that it had been some time since he had called her by that dreadful moniker.

.

.

.

_Princess._

_._

_._

_._

* * *

And shortly thereafter, after all of the suspense and hinting and planning, the time for Granger's surprise finally came. On the bright side, all of Draco's preparations had gone smoothly, and when he arrived at the edge of the lake with Granger in tow everything was as it should have been. On the other hand, unfortunately, Draco was very quickly coming to realize that although he admittedly hadn't considered the full extent of what her reaction might be, there were already many unexpected emotions rolling off of her tiny frame.

Like panic, for example.

"What is this?" she asked, breathless.

"Well," Draco responded calmly, forcing his shrug to be casual. "You should know. It was your idea."

"What are you talking about?" Her frightened face whipped toward him and Draco was momentarily taken aback. _She isn't afraid of a shouting match with a six-foot beast and yet she reacts so strongly to __this__?_ But he recovered quickly.

"Do you not remember our first walk through the courtyard?"

He watched her eyes dart about as she delved deep into the archives of her mind and, totally at her wit's end, asked, "When on earth did I mention a _picnic_?" But little more than a moment later, memory suddenly struck, and Draco watched as a new set of expressions tore across her features. "I wasn't serious," she protested immediately.

"I'm aware," he stated slowly, though he was still totally unaware of the reason for the _strength_ of her reaction**.** Was she still afraid of him even after all this time? Brows furrowing, he said, "There could be no mistaking your true feelings on the matter when you first mentioned it."

"I mean really," Granger began to babble, ignoring the way the breeze blew her hair into her face. "Especially when my sarcasm was thicker than Snape's porridge! And that's not even accounting for the fact that I really was not in my best state of mind when I said it, and I also believe it was followed by a mad bark of laughter, was it not?"

"It was."

"It was in no way, shape, or form a suggestion. Really."

"And quite needless to say, I did not take it as such at the time."

"Then why would you...?"

"I have a rather twisted sense of irony," he taunted, trying to lighten the mood.

She did not seem amused.

"An important lesson for you, Granger," he said with a sigh as he lowered himself onto the large expanse of cloth at the bank. The Master swiped an apple from a basket and rubbed it against his cloak out of habit. It wasn't exactly the most appealing treat, especially after the hunt's dissatisfaction—_there isn't nearly enough bloody steak to go around_—but aiming for a well-balanced meal was always one of his ways of saying a nice _sod off _to his canine circumstances.

"You should be very careful about what you say around me," he said in a low voice, turning back to her, and he felt rather than saw the air catch in her throat. Draco had ensured that there was no trace of any threat in his tone, but her breath mysteriously abandoned her, anyway. He looked at her curiously, raising an inquisitive brow that spoke of his obvious puzzlement and perhaps her obvious insanity, and waited for her to join him.

"Right," she whispered.

... & ...

With a breath as deep as possible, Hermione carefully dropped her faded satchel—a useful tool that the Wardrobe Twins had tried to hide from her in the deepest recesses of the space beneath her bed—and tried to lower herself to the ground as gracefully as she could. _It isn't fair that someone who's nearly seven feet tall should still look so dignified!_ she thought with much more venom than she actually felt, if only to quell the absurdly rapid beating of her heart. _And with something as simple as sitting down! It must have been all of those stupid balls and etiquette classes because it's unnatural, is what it is._

He was still looking at her in earnest, as if he were waiting to see what she would do next, and Hermione purposefully kept her eyes glued to the lake. Even through her self-consciousness and her paranoia, she could feel herself growing ruffled and angry_, _and she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction of whatever it was that he was looking for.

_I won't be fooled, _she thought stubbornly, ignoring a stray lock of hair that was flitting about her eyes. _I don't know what he has rolled up his sleeve, but if he thinks that I don't suspect his tricks then he's got another thing coming. I'll follow Pansy's instructions and play along, but I sure as hell won't let myself be ruled by his company any longer. From here on out, it's just strategy._

She still hadn't bothered to look his way again by the time his voice rang out, "A proposal, Granger."

"Another?"

She could practically hear his smirk. "You've left me no choice. I'm willing to grant you access to the musical conservatory, even."

Hermione's attention naturally perked, and it was only after her gaze had connected with his that she realized she'd played right into his hands. She huffed a breath, not quite yet ready to concede, and asked, "In exchange for...?"

"Your cooperation."

"Beg pardon?"

"To put it more plainly? Consider it an incentive to relax a little."

"You're not seriously trying to bargain your way into having me enjoy myself?"

"Your tension is tearing my natural instincts to shreds; I'm merely trying to salvage what's left of them."

"Through bribery."

"I am a nobleman, after all," he baited.

"You know, I've always wondered at the contradiction between the noun and the adjective—which came first? Was the descriptive label of 'noble' created in honor of the nobleman, or did the word 'nobleman' arise from a man's adherence to the virtue of nobility? Though I'm afraid neither seem very well-matched these days."

"Yet another scathingcritique of the noblesse... why, Granger, the variety of conversation topicsat your disposal is shocking."

"Does this mean that I've earned the musical conservatory?" she mocked with a smile.

"It doesn't count if your lightheartedness only comes at the cost of my character."

"Then that specification should have been made clear much earlier on, your highness."

"You know, I never thought it possible."

"What?"

"The existence of pedanthood and peasantry alive within the same being."

"I am going to ignore the never ending jabs at my birthplace, which have grown rather tiresome—"

"Much like yours at mine?"

"—to remind you that while the state of pedanthood is indeed a dispositional trait—"

"I am sorry I said anything," he rolled his eyes.

"You refer to peasantry as if it were also a form of personality."

"In your case, it almost always is."

... & ...

He'd expected another retort so her thoughtful pause caught him off guard. She'd thoughtlessly picked off a small bunch of grapes from a nearby bowl, but was currently content to merely play with the vines instead of eating the fruit. "What is it?" he asked.

Broken from her reverie, Hermione shot him a glance that made him believe she'd actually come close to forgetting that he was there. Interestingly, he felt all the more intrigued despite the nagging feeling that perhaps he should have been offended.

"My thoughts just got a little sidetracked, that's all."

"I'd say that's not entirely unusual, if not for the fact that I just insulted you." She sent him a mild glare, but he could tell that she was itching to say something now that he had her attention. "Just ask."

"What?"

"Just ask whatever it is that you want to ask. I can't promise that I'll give you an answer, but I'm sure it will be amusing to hear anyway."

"Ever the gracious host, indeed," she huffed before popping a grape into her mouth. If Draco didn't know any better, he would say she looked... embarrassed? _If I wasn't intrigued before, I certainly am now._

"It can't be any more awful than your usual impudence."

"There _really_ isn't any way of asking it without sounding rude."

"Has this stopped you before?"

"It's about Madam McGonagall."

"Interesting," he peered at her more carefully, allowing his lips to tilt upward. "Do tell."

She shifted an uneasy glance in his direction. "All right, _fine_. Fine. I'll ask, but I have to know for sure that you'll not breathe a word of it to her later, and that you'll give me an honest answer... Well, as honest and helpful as you can anyway."

Draco considered her more seriously. Was something wrong? Had his stewardess somehow done something to upset her? "A proposal with two conditions?" he remarked with a calculating stare. "And what might I get in return?"

"What would you want?" she asked cautiously.

Draco paused, for it was not a question that she had ever truly asked him before.

What _did _he want from her?

"I'll accept your first condition as long as you help me finish off the contents of these baskets," he gestured to the food displayed around them. "I have a rather frightening appetite, so I assure you that there won't be much responsibility on your part."

"And the second?" she asked curiously.

He hesitated, wanting to use this opening as a prime opportunity to choose that which would benefit him most... But all the ideas that might have seemed appropriate a few weeks ago had lost their appeal, and he realized in frustration that he now had no idea where to start.

It was at that precise moment that another breeze brushed a mound of curls into her eyes and, losing his patience, Draco sighed irritably. _This will have to do for now. _"Just make sure you keep that blasted hair out of your face. It's annoying as all hell."

"_Another _agreement about my hair?" She touched the strands at her cheek, but covered them protectively instead of properly arranging them out of her face.

"It is a rather trying obstacle."

Granger released a small laugh that was no doubt at his expense. "Says the one entirely covered in fur."

"Do you want my help or not?" he snapped impatiently. "Keep your hair out of your face, and we've got a deal." This seemed to sober her up a bit and he enjoyed the way she clamped down on her words. "Well?"

"Fine," she acquiesced."This already seems so stupid, and it's just going to sound worse aloud, but... well, when you were talking about personality and how it's reflected in a person's station or appearance—"

"Was I a part of this conversation? Because I do not recall any such thing. You must have been interpreting all of that on your own because, I assure you, I was mainly aiming for a pure, good old-fashioned insult. Leave it to you to try to turn a perfectly crafted jab into something philosophical."

"_Whatever, _just let me finish!" she snapped. "I just remembered a question that had been confounding me for the last few weeks, all right? I observed early on that many of the creatures affected by the curse were transformed into objects that most closely resembled either their occupation or their personality... and I've been wondering why McGonagall is...well." She squinted at him sheepishly, a shrug lifting her shoulders as if she were bracing for impact.

"Why she is...?"

"A _witch's_ hat?"

It took a full four seconds for him to realize that he had heard her correctly, and another two seconds for him to start to recognize the long-forgotten feeling bubbling at the back of his throat, and finally, another three for the laughter to burst forth, his head rolling backward at the force of the amusement rolling within him.

Granger, for her part, looked as if she were ready to make a run for it. Trying to maintain a sense of indignation through her rapidly growing alarm, she watched on with morbid fascination. "You're laughing," she tried to accuse, but it more closely came out as utter bafflement.

"_That _was your question?" he asked her, once the rumbling had mostly subsided. His smirk lifted higher, which only pulled Granger's frown lower.

"It is a valid point of inquiry!" she contested, and he took mischievous delightin the flush that covered her cheeks. "And if I weren't so startled to see this side of you, I would have plenty of reasons at my fingertips for why it is so."

"And I'm sure you'll compose a list when they finally return to you," he predicted good-naturedly, thought Granger was in no mood to humor him. Honestly, he thought she'd actually had a _real _question to ask! He realized with a budding sense of victory that it'd only been a mere ten minutes into his afternoon plans, and he already had _two_ additional agreements, however trivial, lined up in his favor. _Which reminds me_. "All right, eat up," he ordered, pushing a basket closer to her thigh. "You fulfill your end, and I'll fulfill mine."

"Fine," she huffed, taking out a small stack of crackers. "But I still want the conservatory."

He sent her a knowing glance and once her mouth was wonderfully preoccupied by her snacks, he obliged. "I'm afraid you'll be disappointed to learn that there is no real rhyme or reason for her transformation, other than the fact that she wore that hat quite often while tending to her duties about the grounds, especially during the rainy season. I assure you that it is not in any way related to the beings who perform magic, though I know many who would find your conclusion hysterical."

"I _know _it's not magical," Hermione insisted, her irritation and embarrassmentgrowing all the more clear as she absentmindedly crushed the remaining cracker in her palm. "It's just—it wasn't exactly a polite question to ask, you know! It's not as if the connections between your servants and their previous lives are always clearly drawn."

He glanced at her curiously, wondering who she might be thinking of. "The connections might be much clearer than you think."

She considered his words for a moment then, and they sat in comfortable silence as he caught a number of blueberries in his mouth and she munched on tufts of bread from a small slice that she—_is defiling—_held in her hand.

"I wonder what I would have turned into?" she asked suddenly. "You know, if I were to have been placed under the curse as well."

"A little morbid, don't you think?" he asked, trying to push away the dark cloud of _what ifs _that threatened to overshadow his victor's high.

"No more so than the consideration of any other part of my personality... Maybe I would have become something that has to do with horses or a quill like Terry or Anthony. Or a book like Luna!" Draco snorted. _This girl is hopeless._

"Or the more obvious answer."

"Which is?"

"A stick in the mud."

"Ha, ha," she droned, before realization lit up her eyes. She held up a hand to still him despite his obviously going nowhere, cried "Wait! You just reminded me of something," and before he knew it, she was pulling out the stack of papers from the library known as the Sorting Hat.

"Granger, that thing can't have been created any later than the medieval period—it's so old that something must be alive and growing inside. Why on earth do you have that?"

"I found the Hufflepuff window while walking around the corridors near the library one day, and have been looking for more information on Hogwarts ever since," she explained. "I asked Luna and the others to help me, and this is what we found!"

She passed the stack of nonsense to him, and he regarded it carefully, as if he were seeing it for the first time. "You realize that this is by no means an accurate representation of what you seek; the Sorting was an age-old tradition and a great honor bestowed only upon the most privileged of the times."

"So you know more about what it was actually like?" she asked earnestly, scooting closer to look on.

Draco eyed the meager space between them with suspicion, certain that she had no idea what she was doing, and not entirely certain that he was okay with such little distance himself. _She's close enough to touch,_ he noted distractedly as she thumbed through the pages in his grasp. "Only that it existed," he said immediately, watching as her expression gave way to disappointment; he was fascinated by the way her entire countenance had changed in a single moment. _We've gotten too close before, when fighting one another off, _he reflected, feeling a little disoriented. _But not like this._

If she had yet to notice, however, then _he_ certainly wasn't going to enlighten her. "But _this _will be of no use to you," he assured her.

"A primary source is a primary source," she defended, and she meant to snatch the stack back out of his hands, but he wouldn't let go.

"Have you already started to believe in this nonsense?" he asked with heavy amusement, which only made her annoyance flare higher. "You've taken this prankster's exam then? Let me guess: _Gryffindor_?"

She paused, eyes wide and fingers still. "How did you know?"

He scoffed, releasing the stack into her grip. "You reek of it."

"I _beg_ your pardon?"

"Believe me, you don't need a worthless pile of questions to see that you're a bit of a lioness. To be certain one only need look at your mane."

"Laugh all you want, but I am not changing my mind—stupid pet project of some old forgotten gang, this may be, but I appreciate the insight," she challenged with a huff and turned away to examine the documents more closely. "The other servants and I spent all yesterday afternoon completing it, and I brought it out here for you to take as well."

Draco couldn't contain his surprise. "You did what?"

"Well, aren't you the least bit curious?" she demanded, scanning through the questions with near-hunger. As she rubbed a corner of the scratchy parchment between her fingertips, she admitted, "At least _I _wonder what you would be."

"Slytherin," he said immediately, not bothering to glance at her outstretched hands; he was still trying to process this new development**.**

"You say that so assuredly for someone not even willing to take a look."

"I promise you," he turned to her slowly, smirk alive but eyes serious. "There is no question."

"Just try it," she sighed in exasperation, her disappointment growing tangible. "Humor me. Please."

Draco glanced to her at his side. He considered telling her just how often he _humored _her, and then possibly tossing the old pile of bollocks into the lake just to shut her up, but there was such honest, open eagerness in her eyes that he faltered. _Stubborn woman. _Against his better judgment, he snatched the pile back out of her hands, and tried to ignore the twinge of _whatever _it was that he felt as she smiled at him in soft triumph. "Don't say I didn't warn you," he said sternly, working to keep his dignity intact since the girl was obviously convinced that she'd won more than she actually had.

Not that her victory lasted long, of course.

A mere ten minutes later, Hermione was furiously reading over his scores. "It's all Slytherin," she breathed, astounded. "Every single one. There isn't a single deviation."

"I warned you."

"You must have known what characteristics would lead you to Slytherin beforehand," she accused, still glancing at the stack suspiciously. "You had to have cheated."

"Although I did _not_," he clearly declared. "I will argue that achieving an end through such means would only further confirm my placement."

"What an awful requisite for a House."

He scowled. "There is more to it than that," he tried to begin, but she wasn't listening.

"I can't believe it," she whispered, still lost. "Each of the others at least had _some _traces of the other Houses."

"Granger, what did I tell you before?"

"That if I want answers, I should stop rolling my curls between my fingers while I think?" Her hand fell away from her hair immediately.

"That my entire family has prided itself on its Slytherin heritage," he reminded her dully. "Surely you've come across the House familiars. The badger, eagle, lion and—"

"Oh," she nodded blankly. "Yes. The snakes."

"It's not just about the snakes," he snapped with a glare. "To be Slytherin is just as much a part of my birthright as it is to be a Malfoy, or to be of noble blood. And it's a _serpent_, for the record."

"Well, I'll leave you to them then. With all of your animalistic personas, it hard to keep track. Serpent, ferret, werewolf—"

"I'm _not_ a werewolf. I'm a human with werewolf-like qualities."

"Regardless."

"There is a _difference_."

"I'll have to take your word for it," she rolled her eyes, and then turned to him with a mocking smile. "Does that mean your foul shifts in temper have something to do with the lunar cycle?"

"That is hardly funny."

... & ...

The real problem was that Granger didn't think it was very funny either; she was actually hoping that he might let something slip and end up betraying the darker secrets of his curse, including any other obstacles she might need to know about—namely any nasty side effects of a full moon, such as enhanced strength or a lack of higher cognitive thinking. She could simply ask Pansy, she supposed... But Hermione wasn't about to put all of her eggs in one basket. _Keep it flowing, Hermione, _she willed herself. _Keep up the banter, play friendly... Do what you have to do—come on, it's been rather easy, hasn't it?_

_Perhaps... even too easy?_

Hermione laughed in response, trying to cover her nervous line of thoughts while she directed the conversation down a different path. "But there _are _distinct differences with how you function, are there not? For example, if your ability to heal has been so affected by your new form, as well as your dietary preferences and your senses, your organs must have been drastically altered as well," she mused aloud.

"Madam Pomfrey suspects that they have all nearly tripled in size," he admitted evenly after a long pause. He tossed small stones into the lake but cared little for where they fell.

"All?"

"Seriously, Granger? Of course _all_... You think—what in the hell is so funny?" he glared at her, snarling through his words as she smothered her breaths of laughter.

"Some of the unexpected consequences of your transformation just occurred to me, but I doubt you will find them as amusing as I do."

"If you make a single juvenile remark about the size of my brain, I swear on my kingdom, Granger, I'll—"

"No, no, I was actually thinking of a much different portion of your anatomy."

He paused, his eyes widening marginally. Hermione was surprised at having caught him off guard already, but she was grateful for it because it allowed her to finish uninterrupted.

"Your highness, have you ever considered that your heart is now much larger, too?"

"My... _heart_?"

"Of course, it is only a theory. _I _have not personally seen any such evidence, but you did say that I could vouch for your character in any quests for a princess. You must admit that it would be quite a selling point."

"Right," he said slowly, still a little distracted, but she was not deterred.

"You know," Hermione began thoughtfully. "I'm not quite sure you marrying a princess would be such a good idea after all."

"_Oh_? And why is that?"

"Just think of it: you both would be so high-maintenance that nothing would ever get done," she said, and then laughed at the very idea.

"High-maintenance? I don't see _you _turning down offers to the gardens or conservatories, Granger. Are you sure _you_ are not becoming more accustomed to the royal lifestyle that you so detest?"

"You're laughing at me again," she accused, and more directly this time. _I've been here for nearly a month and have never seen him so much as crack a genuine smile—and here he is! Laughing! Or something like it... but for the second time in an hour! _"What on earth could amuse you so thoroughly, aside from my obvious unease with this sudden development of yours?"

"You think I laugh merely to torture you?"

"I am certain that you laugh because you have already found _another_ means of torture for me," she scowled, but the easy aura flowing around him did not dissipate, and that only irked her further. "Although I can't be sure of what exactly."

"You wish to know what brought on this sudden bout of laughter, is that it?" And as he leaned closer, Hermione couldn't ignorethe grin that had settled over his gleaming fangs. She crossed her arms, feeling the strange turbulence within her once more, and merely raised an exasperated brow. _I will not dignify that remark with a response._

"You know, you area bit like a game of mine, aren't you?"

"Oh, _sod off_, your highness."

He smirked.

"Call me Malfoy."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Malfoy," he said impatiently, cocking an eyebrow. "It's my name, as you're aware?"

"I am," she said, still very confused.

"Then use it."

Hermione took a moment to ponder this. _Is he being serious? _Then with renewed fire in her eyes and a smile in her voice, she playfully spat out, "All right… sod off, Malfoy."

His smirk widened. "That's the spirit."

A comfortable calm settled over the lake then, and the Master—_Malfoy—_lowered himself farther down to the ground to rest on his back and forearms, content with the bout of silence. Hermione, meanwhile, was finally starting to piece together the severity of the last few moments. _Oh my god... what have I done? _A once-forgotten line from long ago summers of reading with her father on the cliff suddenly filtered through her mind—_What's in a name?_—and it was not long until she was completely absorbed in her thoughts.

_What a superb question, Shakespeare, _Hermione thought with heavy disdain. _Positively superb._

Juliet of the Capulet family had argued that such societal functions should not matter, but Hermione Jane Granger had given up that way of thinking long ago. The age into which Hermione had been thrown was full of hierarchies and the futile games people play in the hopes of achieving social mobility, where names could earn favor and equal power. Young Juliet, so naive yet so strong in her passion, had questioned the power of a name and, through Shakespeare's guidance, had ultimately rejected the darker nature of a name's power, all for the sake of love.

_But for the sake of the drama, Shakespeare did not allow her to consider it fully, _Hermione noted as she nervously took a bite from her apple._ Juliet had not been unaware of the consequences she would face after marrying a Montague, but had she __truly__ realized how inextricably intertwined a name and a family could be? How closely one could connect a name to certain values? To pieces of history? To hopes for the future? To say that a name is merely a name... that it is not what one calls oneself, or calls others, that truly matters, but what simply __is__? It is a foolish dream, and there are not many who would make that same mistake. A name is so often layered with emotion; it is a way of expressing a connection... or a lack thereof._

She surreptitiously glanced to the Prince beside her as she took another bite. _He__ understands the significance of the connection between one's name and one's responsibility, _she thought restlessly. _And therein lies my concern!_ _This name... however he may feel about the life he was set to live or those who dictated it for him... this name is precious to him. But what has compelled__him to allow me to speak to him so familiarly? To disregard his title? To use the name that, on whatever level, means so much to him? What could it mean for my place within this castle?_

_What is a name to him?_

_To Juliet, her lover may not have been a Montague, but he was still her __Romeo__, was he not? The names that people choose to recognize, or not to recognize, often tell much more about a friendship or a relationship than most would often like to admit. That he uses __my__ family name is no surprise—since our arrangement requires that his favored peasant monikers be kept to a minimum, this is his way of reminding me of my station, always. _But then she thought of her first night in the castle and the only incident in which she'd ever heard anyone speak of Tom Riddle. _What had Madam McGonagall called him? You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named..._ _What other names has he altered and selected to meet his needs? _She thought of her newfound ally in the mirror. _Pansy calls him by his given name... what liberties has __she__ been afforded? Is there any other being in the castle that refers to him by his surname? Have I just been granted certain liberties as well?_

But that would be ridiculous.

_Do I even feel comfortable speaking to him so familiarly? _Pansy called him by a much more personal name, and Hermione wondered in agitation what the Master—_Malfoy—_might call the woman in return. Hermione thought of the people she was close to herself. _Does he realize that such an extension implies acceptance? Or tolerance? It presumes a level of camaraderie! _she thought, thoroughly discomfited. _Why, it could even denote..._

Trust.

But she wouldn't allow herself to believe it. _This must be another one of his games_, she decided, and then felt all the more glad for her having protected herself against such torment with her newly cemented plans for escape. She would not fall victim to his tricks nor would she stand unguarded against his schemes any longer. She would use his name, but it would not define the terms between them—it changed nothing. _U__nless it allows me privileges that might prove useful, of course._

And yet, try as she might, she still couldn't deny the irony.

She had finally betrayed his trust... without him ever having actually given it to her.

_So it doesn't really count, does it?_

_._

_._

_._

Somehow, as she looked at him lazing contently beside her, under the sun at the edge of the lake, she thought that it did.

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* * *

**End Note: **The Dramione interaction in this chapter reached just under 5,200 words (the total word count was 8,759) and was nearly ten pages! The plot is ever thickening and there is still plenty more mystery, secret plotting, and betrayal to come! Also, has anyone seen the _Beauty & the Beast _in 3D yet? D: I am dying to go. (Plus, there is a rumor that they are making another rendition of the tale with Emma Watson starring as Belle... _what_?)

**Next Chapter Preview:**

"You realize that your words and your actions are totally at odds with one another. Your language is rather cutting, as per usual, but the carelessness with which you have draped yourself over that sofa might lead others to believe that you are not quite as perturbed by my company as you'd like to appear."

"I have always been blessed with such talents."

"Draping yourself over parlor room furniture?"

"Granger," he smirked. "I thought we'd agreed that all conversation regarding the deviousness of my wild youth was at an end."

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Please drop a review if you enjoyed it. :)


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